Die Ironie des Krieges
by OakwoodOuroboros
Summary: WW2 AU. Bertholdt Fubar, a German Jewish boy, is smuggled into the country when things start to go sour in his homeland. Sent to work in the countryside, he is kept as a farmhand under the reign of the Tenards. Reiner Braun, a boy of direct German descent, is an evacuee trying to cope with the discriminination he faces due to his origins. Full summary on profile page.
1. Chapter 1: Coal brings fatality

**Why hello there, and welcome to my new story! This is an SnK England/evacuee WW2 fic, and the least family-friendly thing I have ever posted here.**

 **Heavily inspired by the one chapter of "Liebe und Krieg" which is currently published. If anybody has a copy of the original story, or who can actually contact the author (CaptainMotgane) to ask them to post it again, please do so. I would really appreciate it.**

 **Other sources of inspiration include Roman Mysteries novels, "Capture" by ostara-san and "Wish you well" by David Baldacci. I also thank all the reference books that better informed me about the Second World War in Britain (the Horrible Histories' "Blitzed Brits", mainly) and religion ("General Knowledge for Dummies". Just, don't judge.).**

 **I by no means wish to offend anybody with this fic, so I will admit this straight away: my education, concerning religion and English history and Geography anyhow, is somewhat lacking. A realistic amount of swearing will take place in this fic as well, but I suppose that if you can stand what to read what I put up in the warnings, a few rude words shouldn't offend you. Anyway, I will look up things that I'm not sure of, but if you do see anything which looks overly out of place, please contact me so that I can correct the mistake. Thank you.**

 **I don't own SnK.**

 **Edit:** **The chapters are now being betaed, so there may be some minor differences with the original version.**

* * *

Chapter 1: Coal brings fatality

 **This chapter features neglect, mentions of abuse, mentions of suicide and agoraphobic and asthmatic characters. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

"Berthold, you worthless lout! Get here right this instant!"

"Berthold _t_ ," the person in question corrected, sighing quietly, before getting up from the bale of hay he had been resting his sore bones on. He should have known: the sun was going down, it would soon be time to bring the cows in from the fields. He looked down from the loft, towards the person who had called him. The woman had her grey-strewn fiery red hair in a bun on top of her head, little stray wisps escaping here and there. She wore a scowl on what could have been a pretty face, were it not for the bitter expression she sported daily. One of her hands was sitting on her hip, and a switch usually used on misbehaving animals tapped continually against the high boots she wore, held in her other hand.

Bertholdt gulped slightly, and started descending from the hay-loft as slowly as he dared. Her gaze never left the point between his shoulder blades as he turned his back on her to use the ladder. He felt it burning into his flesh. When he got to the bottom, he looked down at her, seeing as she must have been a good two heads shorter than him. Her scowl deepened even further at this; after all, she has always hated him for being so tall. Scratch that. She has always hated him, point blank.

Without a word, she shot him a furious look, raising the thin piece of wood in a threatening manner. He flinched away, taking a step back and averting his gaze. But nothing happened.

The tall boy looked at the woman again. She now had the most pleasant expression on her face that she has had in days, a smile, even though it was by no means kind. Small brown eyes narrowed in hilarity, she was now pointing the stick at him, as if she had only ever intended to pass it over to him.

He stayed motionless for a few seconds more, just to make sure that she would not take him off guard, and then took the weight of the switch from her. His eyes lowered again, he quickly scuttled past her, but not enough so as to avoid a rough smack to the back of the head.

"And get back in time to get the coal in!"

* * *

No matter how long he stared, the cracked mirror only showed him something that he would rather not see. He raised a hand, dragging it through his short blond hair, before passing it in front of his clear blue eyes, temporarily obscuring his vision of himself, then down his chiselled cheekbones and chin.

"Don't get cocky, son. Arrogance will get you nowhere in life."

The woman who had spoken from the corner of the room was busy patching up an old coat. Her hair was undone, draped like a golden curtain reaching halfway down her back. Her eyes were tired, and she didn't look up from her work as she spoke.

Reiner went back to his bed, which creaked as he sat his consequent weight on its frame. The flimsy thing was not meant for a person of his mass, and he highly suspected that the metal bars supporting the mattress he laid on every night were starting to bend in the middle.

"I would have preferred to stay in Bristol."

There was a pause, just long enough so that Reiner could regret his words, before his mother's eyes turned from weary to sharp. She looked at him, and her words came out like knives. They did not cut through him with anger: although they barely scratched his mental skin, they stung badly with the disappointment that they held.

 _"We worked very hard to get out here, Reiner. It was difficult leaving the city, as much for me as it was for you. But your father had to go to the front, and a woman and a boy can't keep shop by themselves. You'll just have to make do with what we've got for now."_

She had spoken in her native language, the one she was most familiar with. The blond nodded his head in understanding, even though he had already known that that was what she was going to say. His mother was a person who needed to lull herself into a false sense of security, even if she had abandoned her livelihood to do so. When his father was around, she would be content, his massive presence in the room reassuring her. But with the war on, she has had to find herself another rock to hold on to, and that had turned out to be wherever the evacuation had wished to leave her. She had settled as soon as she had been taken on as a-woman-that-does-the-sewing on this rich property, which only just paid for the room she rented for both of them. As for Reiner, he was to provide all the rest: food, coal for the small fireplace, cloth, and anything else that permitted their survival. He took on small jobs, on the manor grounds or around town, only ever interrupted by Church on Sundays and the setting of the sun.

Even he has to admit, it's a hard life, and he sometimes wished for more. But he couldn't. He struggled for work, but he thought himself lucky that some people would still take him on for a few coins an hour, despite knowing of his origins written all over his face, and that the townsfolk didn't treat him too badly. Most of the time.

The woman set aside her sewing to walk over to the unlit stove that she then started kindling with deadfall. In retrospect, Reiner was happy that he took that detour through the woods the other day to pick up the pieces of wood littering the forest trail. It should keep them going for some time...

 _"We need more coal."_

He got up slowly, bones popping back into place as he forced his heavy frame to stand.

 _"Cracking bones means that you don't use them enough. Sloth is a sin, you know that?"_

 _"Yes, mother. I will get some coal now."_

 _"Hurry, then. This night will be cold, and it will rain to-morrow."_

He grabbed his coat on the way out. It was an old thing, black leather with a sheepskin lining, but it has served his great-grandfather and all his descendants well. It has turned into a family heirloom of sorts, passed on to him as his father left for the front. Every time his hand reached for it, he hesitated. It didn't help his appearance in any way, he knew that, but common sense dictated that none other than the heavy piece of clothing could keep the biting wind off. He tugged the door to their room closed, only letting in a small draft as he quickly slammed it shut behind him.

He found himself on the outside of the main house. The room had been a coachman's quarters, which has a door leading directly outside to get to the horses quickly, as well as an entrance onto the main house. This was convenient; Reiner didn't have to disturb the occupants of the grand place with him trudging through it with various mess-prone things such as buckets of coal or his muddy boots.

He headed down the path that led towards the edge of the domain, the wooden pail in his hand, picked up from where he had left it before. The gate creaked on its hinges as he pulled it towards him, and then carefully closed it, dropping the latch back into its little niche. From here onwards, the path was dark and wooded. It was not one that Reiner would use often, if he could help it: but there were very few people walking this country road at such an hour, and he relied on that. Yet, this _was_ the quickest path to the church, a place where he knew he would be given a bucketful of coal and a kind smile for free if he were in need of it.

He hurried along the road, determined to get back before the sun went down fully. His boots slapped against the moist ground, sometimes trampling small plants on the ill-used path. Soon enough, the trees cleared on his right, replaced by a field bordered by a wooden fence. It was empty now, but the closely grazed grass spoke of cattle of some kind. There weren't many left over, since all available agricultural space was now being used to grow potatoes more than anything else, but after all, some farmers loved their animals nearly as much as the King himself.

The tall lad snorted, amused at his little comparison, and then stopped as he felt the familiar tightness in his lungs.

 _Shit, shit, shit, SHIT._

His hands fumbled through his pockets, but he could not find it. His digging became more and more frantic, and finally he found what he was looking for. He pulled his most prized possession out of his pocket, but his trembling hands betrayed him at the last moment.

Only a few seconds were needed for the horror to submerge him, but when it finally did, it hit like a train.

He had dropped it.

He was immediately on his hands and knees, his unseeing eyes desperately trying to find the small object in the darkness, while his lungs sent him one, painfully continuous message:

 _No air can't breathe no air no air no air…_

* * *

The sun was about to start hiding its powerful mass behind the crest of a hill, some of the rays using this low point on the horizon to create a beautiful palette of warm colours on the mackerelled clouds. The complex mosaic of sky-blue and deep reds and pinks was a vision of dreams for certain, a romantic moment to be spent with a close partner, sipping coffee or some other warm beverage as the day came to a close. This was not the case for Bertholdt, though. He despaired at the sight of the light source turning in for the day, while he trudged through the boot-sucking mud and shivering in his sorry excuse for a jacket.

He had brought the cows in, but as he was closing the gate, he noticed the absence of a very noticeable large brown piebald, a certain…

"Rose! Rose!"

He has been calling the animal for hours now, and has yet to even glimpse the distinctive modern art painting that was her coat yet. She was one of the rare animals they could not put a bell on, simply because she would get the leather collar stuck on absolutely anything. She had nearly died one time, and that had convinced the Tenards to get rid of the device. It did not make Bertholdt's task any easier, since the animal was a wanderer as well. But the mere amount of milk she produced every day was worth more than he would ever be, he had been told, on the day he had dared share his thoughts on the matter. So he left it at that, keeping to himself after that.

That's when he spotted the break in the fence.

Bertholdt groaned loudly. This has never happened before, even though he had been dreading the day it would. The smart animal has noticed that some of the wooden posts were more exposed to the damp than others, rotting them enough so that a large weight leaning on them would eventually break the flimsy material.

Hoping that she hasn't gone too far, he walked through the gap that had been formed onto the forest path beyond. He had been on it before, to get around the field without the effort of walking through mud, but never at such an hour. The branches hanging down from above his head were oppressing and the brambles catching at his boots felt like little hands holding him back, trying to stop him walking towards an imminent threat. Or an escape route. All depended on how optimistic you were.

The path pointed in two directions, back towards the farm and the village, or else the mansion ten minutes away. Judging by how crushed the vegetation was on the way to the grand house, Bertholdt decided that his best bet was probably this way.

He walked for about five minutes before stopping. He could hear walking up ahead, heavy, like someone wearing boots with iron nails drawn into them. Who could it possibly be?

Suddenly, the tramping stopped. He could hear the rustling of clothing, then the sound of leaves being turned over, all these sounds having a certain desperate quality to them. Or maybe it was the ragged breathing that accompanied them, getting harsher and harsher as the mysterious person struggled with whatever they were doing up ahead.

Bertholdt debated whether he should go on and offer help, or just continue searching for the cow while there was still light to find her by. He paused, disgusted by the latter of his reflections, before setting down his foot and continuing onwards with determination. As the breathing got more and more desperate, another thought struck him. It immediately lit his face with a bright red hue, and nearly made him turn the other way and run in embarrassment. Fortunately, common sense caught up with him: he had not heard a second set of footsteps, nor had he heard giggling or anything else in the same vein. This person seemed in genuine need of assistance.

As he turned the corner, the cow-herd's suspicions were indeed confirmed. A bulky blond was lying in the middle of the path, sweat on his forehead and mouth open and gaping like a landed fish. Both hands were still scrabbling through the mess left by autumn, and he was covered in small pieces of woodland from his current struggle.

The farm-hand took a step forward, eyes narrowing. A large leather coat, blond hair, blue eyes… a German? What was he doing here? He looked too young to be an officer of any sort, even though the coat on his shoulders could have proved him to be so. Hatred sparked in him, as he saw in the person on the ground the ones from which he had hidden so fearfully a few months ago. He stayed like that, motionless, emotionless, letting the person die a slow death at his feet.

Finally, their eyes locked.

Bertholdt had always been incredibly drawn to eyes. They were the windows to the soul, his mother had told him, what now seemed an eternity ago. When he looked into people's eyes, he would catch a glimpse, which would usually spark a thought or an image in him. Only a sentence, the following, was what he heard when he caught the blond's door to his inner storm, before it slammed in his face, as if drawn by a strong gust of wind:

 _You should not let this person die._

He was instantly by his side as he helped him out, turning over every leaf, pushing every branch aside. He knew the symptoms; he had seen them before in numerous patients in his father's office. Finally, he found the small glass and rubber object, and thrust it into the desperate, shaking hand. The blond brought the object to his lips immediately, and inhaled as deeply as his aching lungs would let him. But it was enough. The product took effect, and a few pants later he was found breathing normally, if not heavily.

The stranger stayed seated there for a while, recovering from his near-death experience as best as he could. Bertholdt kneeled next to him, half expecting to receive a knife in his gut for his efforts. But still. It had been his decision, and he did not regret saving a life in the slightest. If he were to die now, it wouldn't be too bad, he realised. At least he had finally done something with his life, something that meant that he wasn't on the same level as _them_ , that he was still human, despite his faults.

He shook his head again in disbelief of his own thoughts. Was he really putting all his fears, lumping the responsibility of a whole nation, on the back of some poor guy in the middle of the English countryside, who just happened to look like the worst enemies of his culture? And who, above all that, has suffered an asthma attack just in front of his eyes? Maybe he wasn't any better than them, after all.

The blond guy finally got to his feet, a little slowly, and with wobbly knees. He looked at Bertholdt, who was still crouching down, his thoughts lost elsewhere.

"Hey… you… thanks?" he said haltingly, as if trying not to waste too much precious oxygen in speech. Bertholdt nodded, before saying: "House?" and pointing questioningly down both paths one after the other.

The heavy brow wrinkled in thought for a second, before he pointed down the lane towards the manor house. He tried taking a step forward, but his trembling meant that it was more of a stumble than anything else. As he followed up with a second one, his knee buckled, and he would have fallen flat on his face if it were not for the farm-hand catching him at the last second.

Without a word, not even replying to the surprised glance that the blond shot him, he put his arm around his shoulders and proceeded to pull him along, slowly enough so that he could follow, but fast enough so that they would maybe be able to get there before the temperature dropped again for the night.

Leaves crunched beneath their feet, the steady rhythm only interrupted from time to time when they needed to stop, so that the blond could get a gasp of relief from his inhalator.

After a few more of these cycles, he decided to break the silence, to Bertholdt's discontent. He didn't like to talk much.

"My name is Reiner, by the way."

Reiner, huh? Sounded pretty German to him. Still, he was looking at him as if he expected a reply, and he might as well give him one. If he was planning on killing him once he got back into familiar territory, he would go down knowing that, like him, he was a human being who has a way to be identified as an individual, he mused, still vaguely wondering whether this was a good idea or not.

"Bertholdt," he said through gritted teeth, trying, for all he was worth, to keep the reply as brief as possible.

"Reiner" nodded shortly between gasps, seeming to only be taking in the information as a secondary thought, his breathing getting strained once more. He took out his glass device again, which looked a little bit like a perfume bottle and atomizer. Inhaling the vapour until his breaths fell once again into a more normal pattern, he then put his weight back onto Bertholdt's shoulder.

The guy was very heavy, the farm-hand reflected. He was shorter than him, but his muscle mass was huge compared to his own. In a fight, he wouldn't stand much of a chance, unless he exploited his weakness, that is. The question was, what would be the most efficient way to do so? A handful of dust in the face, maybe?

He shook himself mentally. He was such a hypocrite, and an indecisive one at that. If he really wanted to take advantage of a weak position, he should have done so earlier on. He could have even let the guy die there; nobody would have gone looking for him at this time in the evening. That look in his eyes, though. There was something more there.

"We're… nearly… there…"

He turned his attention back to the person he was supporting, whose face, which looked like something chiselled from a block of granite, wore a relieved expression. A gate's silhouette could be picked out against the very last rays of the setting sun. With this, the thoughts of the wayward cow came crashing down on Bertholdt again, and he resigned himself to whatever was waiting for him once he got back to the Tenards. One thing was certain, though: he was pretty sure that it was neither a warm meal, nor a place to sleep near the fire.

They got to the gate, and with a little struggling on Bertholdt's part, he got it open and closed it again. He was now a little nervous. If this "Reiner" was some sort of aristocrat, his chances of escaping him would be even smaller if he decided he wanted to keep him around. And at the very least, he would be involved in some sort of embarrassing "thank you for saving our son/cousin/other relation, but get off our lawn now please" kind of speech. They were not only uncomfortable, but time-wasting as well. And the faster he got back to the Tenards, the better.

They shuffled off to the side of the building, not actually taking the main path to the entrance. Maybe he had sneaked out, or even better, was he just some sort of unimportant guest or a stable-boy of some description? The low light wasn't giving him much of an indication over what kind of clothing he was wearing, but in that moment, he had only been able to process the fact that his heavy coat looked all too much like the ones he had escaped coming over here.

They walked closer to a barn-like structure surrounded by the smell of engine oil and animal faeces, probably the place where they kept a car and horses. The path then split, giving the choice of either turning right to a door onto the main building, or going straight on past the stables to another unknown location. Like all the other people in the area, Bertholdt had walked past, and even, on one occasion, stepped onto the grounds of the estate, but he could not claim to know this part of the property at all.

Reiner shoved him gently, motioning towards the back door of the stately manor. Right. At least he didn't have to lug him around much further.

They got to the door, and the taller of the two youngsters rapped on the door thrice. There was a shuffling, the sound of a bolt sliding out of place, then finally the door opened a sliver to reveal a blonde woman.

"Mother…"

The door opened fully to reveal the lady. She seemed to be in her forties, even though the bags under her eyes added years to her. She opened her mouth, and said:

"Where is the coal?"

Her expression remained steely, and somewhat disinterested. Bertholdt didn't quite understand. If this woman was really this person's mother, then where were the worry and hugs and the where-have-you-been-I've-missed-you? It was as if she didn't really care if her son died. Did she even know he wasn't well?

"Please, mother …"

She looked at him disappointedly again and waved them in, with Bertholdt still supporting the weight of the larger person. He was directed to a bed in the corner of the room, where he let the blond collapse and reach for a mask connected to a large device behind it. He got the machine working quickly enough, and was soon gulping down lungful after lungful of the medicated air.

The saviour then turned to the woman who had let them into the room. She took her place near the stove, a wobbly stool which she had pulled as close to it as possible. She was staring at it, as if she could see the heat radiating off of it. It was pretty warm in the room, he observed, as he had taken in his surroundings. Two beds, a few chairs and stools, and a sink with a cracked mirror occupied the space. It wasn't much, but it was enough for two people to live in. Continuing his inspection from where he was standing, he caught sight of a rather large pile of black rocks in a corner. Coal.

Most sources of heat have been rationed, but there seemed to be plenty here. And that wasn't the strangest thing yet. Reiner had been sent out to get even _more_ of the stuff, but what for?

His eyes went back to the woman, who he was surprised to find staring back at him.

 _"What are you still doing here?"_ she said, with a hint of surprise in her voice.

And not just that, but she had spoken in German.

A groan sounded from behind him, and Bertholdt turned to see the fully-recovered Reiner with an embarrassed look on his face.

"Look, I'm sorry, thank you for saving me back there. I don't know how to repay you, but please take this. It'll help you get back to wherever you're from without tripping and splitting your skull open."

He reached under the bed, and pulled out a torch with a layer of fabric tied to the head.

"This is a torch I used for walking around when there were blackouts back in the city, but I think that if you're careful enough, you could take the fabric off if there still isn't enough light to see by."

Reiner got up from where he had been sitting on the bed and came over to him, pressing the torch into his hands. It was rather heavy, of good quality, and Bertholdt nodded in gratitude at the gift.

 _"Reiner? What are you doing?"_

"I think it is better that you go now; things could get out of hand," he added, pushing the tall boy gently towards the exit. He let him do so; he didn't really want to stay much longer in the presence of this mad lady anyway.

He was soon outside, in the cold, shivering under his vest which offered him hardly any protection against the harsh wind. He turned around and watched as he caught a glimpse of the woman who had previously been sitting next to the fire getting up and walking closer and closer to her son, her face no longer indifferent, but closer to sad.

As the door closed on him, Reiner added, seemingly as an afterthought:

"I hope to see you soon."

Then the sliver of light coming from the door disappeared, and the farm-hand made his way down the path, new torch in hand. The thought of the Tenard family waiting for him when he got back sent a shiver down his spine. And he was certain that it has nothing to do with the cold.

 _"Only if I survive the night, Reiner_."


	2. Chapter 2: Stew brings friendship

Chapter 2: Stew brings friendship

 **This chapter contains discrimination, a homebound character and religious practices (Protestant, Church of England). If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

The door had never been well fitted to the frame, and the seasons did not help by taking turns shrinking or expanding the wood. As a result, drafts would find a way to get in, and it also had a tendency to stick and be difficult to open on wet days. Today was one of those days, as his mother had predicted. She was still asleep as Reiner got himself together, pulling coat and hat on, and then checking his reflection a last time to see if he hadn't missed any patches with his razor. He turned his collar up, and gritting his teeth, pulled hard on the door handle.

It opened with the extra force, but once he stepped out into the autumn rain, he had to slam it shut so that it closed properly. His mother had probably been awakened by the loud sound, and he wouldn't be surprised if the other inhabitants of the house were disturbed by the noise this early in the morning either. Still, it was too late now; he would have to face the consequences another time.

He went around the manor house. He used the small footpath which hugged the side of the building: even if the sideways wind drenched him, he still had better cover this way than if he took the dirt path which went from the stables to the front driveway. Turning the corner and skirting the stone stairs which led to the massive front doors of the opulent house, he went down the previously mentioned grand driveway, walking towards the gates which were open all day and all night.

Reiner exited the domain onto the main road which led to the town. The rain had abated a little, but it made little difference to his drenched self. Fortunately, the coat would protect most of his body from practically any kind of rough weather, and his hat completed what the coat lacked, that is, a hood. Despite the moist morning, a few farmers would be seen making their way in both directions on the road. It was autumn, after all, and crops were still plenty to blossom at this time of year. There were few people walking like him, though, and the ones who were would quickly be picked up by some kind-hearted person and brought to their destination. Everybody knew each other, and even if a stranger were to be seen walking along the muddy roadsides, they would be given a helping hand, even if it was just so they would have something to say at the pub in the evening.

But he was the exception to that kindness.

Everyone would recognise his too-long coat and beaten felt hat, and when they did, they would urge their horses on or make their car accelerate, despite the fact that fuel was rationed. Some people would slow down though, and when that happened, Reiner would try and go as fast as he could without looking too conspicuous, or even hide in hedgerows when it was possible. They meant trouble.

Fortunately, he managed to get to town that day without any hiccups apart from someone driving into a puddle of mud and splashing him with brown matter, just as he got to his first destination. The greengrocer's daughter sat behind a counter, looking as bored as usual.

"You're actually mad enough to come over here through this weather? You really must be solid."

"Thank you, Miss Annie."

"Don't "Miss" me, you twat," she replied, not even a hint of a smile gracing her features. "You're late. Get the fresh boxes out before we open up, or I'll pay you half wage."

He got to the task at hand. Annie held the shop, her father and brothers either dead or at war. She was cold on the outside, a statue-like figure who nobody dared to challenge. Apart him, that is. He could see that it was all a façade and he had the secret ambition to make her laugh one day. She was also the best out of all his bosses, being fair with the amount of money she gave her employee, and even paying him double on his birthday. How she actually found out about that piece of information, he could not say, but he decided not to mention it to her, in case she would claim that it was a mistake and demand the extra sum back.

It did not make the work much easier, unfortunately. It was heavy lifting for the most part, even though he had enough practice to be able to do that without much effort. The trick was to not spill what the crates contained, something he had had a lot of trouble with on the first few days. But he had quickly learned, with a few acid remarks and even, on one occasion, a literal kick to the arse to get him moving.

Now, he could expertly balance a dozen of the smaller crates and put them where customers would be able to take their pick. When the bell of the church struck eight, Annie shouted down to the storerooms where he was arranging the last of the apples that she was opening shop. This, in their common understanding, meant that he was dismissed. Reiner remembered the one time he had asked her about it, and her reply:

"I'm sorry, but with the reputation you've got around town, I don't want my business to suffer because people see you working full-time here. And besides, you've got too much of a thick head to handle rationing coupons correctly."

He chuckled at that, and wondered, yet again, if she did not employ him out of pity rather than for his strength. He buttoned up his coat and stepped out through the back door. The rain was a little less intense than earlier on, more of a drizzle now, but he still decided that the hat would be preferable. Then he set off to his next job.

The morning was spent that way, with him going from one reluctant employer to the next, being shouted at more than he would have liked, and not getting much cash out of it in the end. The worst part was, when he was walking down the streets with an armful of cloth he tried to keep as dry as possible for the tailor, he was tripped by the one person he had not wished to meet in as long as possible: John Redstone.

The aforementioned person looked down at him where he lay on the pavement through long brown lashes, a sneer pulling at his lips.

"Am I too much for you, Braun? Knocked off your feet as soon as you caught sight of me? " he said, his voice as filled with disdain as if he were nothing more than a piece of horse manure. He spat, the glob landing on the fallen felt hat, before adding: "Just remember that you're nothing more than a traitor, a monster, you _Hun_. I don't even understand why His Majesty allows you to _live_ , let alone steal our work from us."

At last, he walked off, taking care to grind his foot into the piece of fabric as he left. Reiner trembled in the mud where he had landed, not getting up immediately. He deserved whatever treatment John decided to give him, even though he had no shame in actually trying to avoid it when possible. It had started pelting down again, and the blond got up. He gathered the dirty cloth in his arms, resigning himself to possibly getting fired from one of his few jobs.

The tailor fired him as soon as he saw him walk through the door.

As he trudged dejectedly out of the shop, the bell struck one. When he heard it, he decided that it was high time to end this morning of work, and walked up the steep little path off to the side of the town. The top of the hill was occupied by two buildings: one was tall, with a bell tower looking over the village-like town and the surrounding areas: the church. The second was smaller, squatter, with wisteria climbing up the walls in a messy and invasive tangle: the priest's house. Reiner walked over to this second building, disturbing a few chickens that had decided to make use of the reprieve in the rain to peck around for worms that could have surfaced. Gravel crunched under his feet until he got to the two stone steps, where he got the caked mud of his boots off with the hedgehog-shaped brush that sat there for that purpose. The knocker was shaped like a woman's hand holding some unknown object, which he lifted and let fall thrice against the small piece of metal fixed to the door itself. A few seconds later, he could hear movement in the house, and saw a flash of gold at one of the windows. A chain clicked on the other side, and the door opened on a petit boy, who looked years younger than his actual age.

"Reiner! Get in, quick, don't let the cold in!"

He did so, while the boy busied himself trying to get the door to close. He had to heave several times to get it back into its frame, something that Reiner could have done with a flick of his finger if he had been asked. But this was Armin. Doing such a thing would hurt his feelings, even if he would never show it and smile it off.

The chain was replaced, and finally, he turned back to his older friend.

"Good thing you're here! Christa and I cooked way too much, but Father sent someone to say that he could not come over, he'll be busy all day."

Reiner smiled at him. "Where is she, by the way? Hiding again?"

Armin looked amused and chuckled, as he would when this subject was reached. "Yes, she is. As soon as she heard your boots on the driveway, she started blushing and ran to her room."

"She still doesn't know?" he asked more seriously, after they had laughed over it for a while.

"I don't think so. It's strange though, it isn't as if she couldn't have heard the rumours. She even gets to go down to town, while I'm stuck here day in, day out."

Reiner shrugged. "Well, you do know me better."

"True. But enough of this, I'm hungry. Wish to join me?"

"I wouldn't mind, actually. I'm starving, and I've had an awful morning."

"Go on, you can tell me all about it over a pot of stew."

The kitchen was stifling, and Reiner had to peel off an extra layer so as to not die right there. Armin always made sure that the stove was going, and when he started living there, had insisted on moving his mattress right next to the source of heat. He had never understood how the youngster would not melt every night, and even less how the pile of books he kept close by did not burst into flames.

He brought out four dishes while Reiner got the cutlery, one set for each of them, as well as Christa's and an extra for any other guests that might be passing by, as was the custom in the house.

They sat and said grace, before attacking the mouth-watering vegetable sludge set out in front of them. As the meal went on, Reiner revealed every single wet, miserable detail of his morning to his best friend. He listened attentively, offering kind remarks and advice as he unrolled his pitiful tale. He snorted indignantly when he got to his encounter with John.

"I knew he was a jackass, but he never made you lose a job! He only gets worst every time, this is getting nowhere…"

There was a silence, with only the roaring of the fire and clinking of cutlery as background noises. The older boy finally put his spoon down and looked at the pictures on the walls. A large photograph of a married couple was the first thing that caught the eye, surrounded by an eclectic mass of other kinds of pictures. Several small oil paintings of the countryside, a pencil sketch of a pretty little girl, as well as an odd one of a singing frog were arranged in a chaotic way on the yellow painted walls. At last, he caught sight of the one that he had been trying to avoid. Crystal clear blue eyes looked straight at the artist, honest and full of some kind of wonder. The cerulean watercolour irises were framed by wheat-gold hair and a small smile was just about visible, nothing more than a single brushstroke really, but present nonetheless.

He couldn't stand it anymore. His gaze fell back to the mirror image of the one on the wall, minus the smile. Instead, a slightly concerned frown cut through his features. It didn't seem right on him, Reiner thought, while his lips unconsciously opened and he let go the thought he had been trying to keep to himself. Damn Armin. He couldn't even lie to him if he wanted to.

"Yes, but I deserve it."

And he blew up on him. He should have expected it.

"Reiner! Don't say that! You shouldn't be blaming yourself for that, it's my fault, I miscalculated and it all went wrong, and I didn't take his family into consideration, and… well… I forgot what Mikasa told me about him…"

"No, no Armin, you _know_ that it wasn't your fault, I just didn't even bother thinking for myself then, I was so over the moon about what you told me that I didn't even think about being _careful_ for goodness's sake. I just wasn't careful enough, and it didn't work."

Armin pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

"Let's just agree that what was done is done, and we can't go back on it. No point in blaming ourselves. Just, agree with me and say that John is a jackass. Please?"

Reiner stayed silent for some time, before Armin added in a lighter tone:

"Come on, humour me!"

"All right, John's a jackass," he said, smiling.

"Glad that you agree with me."

"You know that you're nothing more than a brat?"

He gave him his sweetest smile. "I do indeed."

The conversation kicked off again from there, Armin talking over the many details of what he had recently learned in his books. He did this with great gusto, even letting his food grow cold through too much chatter.

"…and Napoleon wasn't small, that's just a myth spread by the English armies so that their soldiers wouldn't be too scared of him. He was actually a brilliant tactician, and…"

Reiner had been listening to him, rather interestedly too, but he thought that if he didn't say what he had to now, he wouldn't get the chance to any other time. It was common knowledge that Armin knew a lot of things, and took great pleasure in spreading whatever he had recently found interesting to as many people as possible, regardless of whether they wanted to be informed or not.

He knew the look on his friend's face though, and stopped. He liked to listen as much as he liked to talk. Reiner put his spoon down and sighed. He would discover it sooner or later, anyway.

"Somebody saved my life yesterday."

His friend took in a lungful of air, ready to start spouting a barrage of questions. Reiner stopped him with a raised hand.

"Mother sent me out to get coal in the evening, and it was cold and I was tired. I'm not sure what set me off exactly, but you know how it goes with me, it is always very sudden. I had lost the inhalator somewhere in the leaves on the forest shortcut…" He raised his hand again as the desperate teen tried to get a word of protest in. Probably something like "That's a dangerous path!" or "You shouldn't go there by yourself!", but he knew that already.

"… anyway, I was dying, Armin. It was hopeless; I couldn't get even a bit of air in. But then this guy strolled down the path, a really tall, lanky person, and came over and found the inhalator and gave it to me. Even after I was feeling better, he let me lean against him the whole way back to the mansion. He made sure I was all right, Armin. That's like nothing I have ever experienced before. Back in Bristol, people would have taken advantage and robbed me blind and left me to die in a gutter. They wouldn't have given a _shit_ ," the younger blond flinched at the harsh word, "and here, even with John around and all the difficult townsfolk, I manage to find people who would support me. Father White. You. Annie. Doctor Hange. And now this tall guy, Bertholdt his name was."

Armin's eyes filled with tears. Reiner had said such things before; he had expressed his gratitude towards the people who had unconditionally accepted him as a friend, another human being with a heart and feelings. But still, it was on rare an occasion enough that it still came out in a way that stirred his heart very deeply.

"Reiner… You do know that there are kind people in this world, right?" he asked timidly, afraid of the answer he might receive.

The person he had addressed sighed again, and ran his hand through his hair and down his face as he had done yesterday, when he had been examining his reflection. He remembered it. It was so… _stereotyped._

"I know. It's just that… there are so few compared to the number of evil, no, I didn't mean that, _narrow-minded_ people, that they get lost in the mass, you know…"

Armin shook his head. "No, you're wrong. Narrow-mindedness can be cured, evil cannot. It's a question of culture. You're just too ahead of your time, and people are jealous of you," he ended with a smile, which was echoed by one just as sincere from his friend.

They finished off their meals in silence, and when the plates had been all but licked clean, Armin clapped his hands together and said a short prayer. Reiner smiled, but did not participate. The kid was deeply religious, but it was understandable, with him having lived in the town priest's house for the last few years.

They picked up the dishes and split the washing and drying between themselves. They had a good time, Armin going on about the latest parish gossip.

"…and this young girl, Cherished, came around for the first time ever the other day. I thought that she was new to the town, an evacuee or something, but no, it turns out her parents have got a farm just around the corner and have lived there their whole lives!"

"Interesting. How are they?"

Armin went off into a long spiel about the mysterious people, but Reiner only half listened to the answer that he had to give to his question. His friend very probably noticed, but didn't stop talking. He understood that he needed to lose himself in his thoughts sometimes. What would he do this afternoon? Did he try the baker's, see if she had any bread left over?...

"… by the way! I may have found a way for you to get that job that you lost at the tailor's!"

His train of thought derailed as he caught these words and he started listening to Armin in rapt attention. His plan really was flawless, but there was one thing that bothered him.

"And if it doesn't work? There's always a chance, isn't there?"

The short blond rolled his eyes at him, and he looked so much like a normal teenager rather than a master of strategics or an ill child in that one gesture that it nearly made Reiner giggle. Nearly.

" _Please_ , my plans only ever failed once, and I prefer not to be reminded of that, thank you very much. We agreed to drop the subject, anyway."

And they did. The last plate was put on the wooden rack above the counter, and Reiner headed back towards the hallway to get his coat and boots. Armin followed on his heels, whining as he went.

"Come on, just one game of chess!"

"You win every time, even if you try not to."

"How about cards?"

"It's exactly the same thing. I'm sorry, but I need to get back to work!"

"But I'm boreeeed…"

Reiner sighed and looked at his friend again. No way would he be able to sneak him out and bring him to work with him; it might have been possible in summer, but not with the hellish weather outside today.

"Look, I'm sorry, but if I don't go, I'll starve. Or freeze to death. Tell you what; I'll get you a book for your birthday, or whenever I get enough money together," he bribed the younger person.

Armin blushed violently at this, the embarrassment clear on his face as he waved his arms around in denial.

"No, wait, I didn't really mean it! It was a joke; of course I wouldn't stop you from making your living. Just go now, don't look at me, it's stupid, I look like Christa now."

The poor kid, Reiner thought as he closed the front door, laughing as he went. He longed so much for the outside world, he wanted to _experience_ it, more than the glimpses that he would catch in summer, that is. One day, books just won't be enough for him, he added grimly to himself. He hoped that it would not happen for a long, long time.

The sky had cleared a little, just enough blue to make a pair of sailor's trousers visible in the ominously still mass of grey. Through that small hole in the low fluffy ceiling, Reiner saw a little white sliver, what was left of the moon before it disappeared completely for this part of its cycle.

It was strange, really. He decided to take it as a sign, but of what, he did not know. Later on, when Armin's plan worked perfectly on the previously fuming tailor, he decided that it would be good luck rather than anything else.

The rest of the day went by in a similar way, something seeming to have blessed him from that time with his meal with Armin. The work was just as hard, but small things such as finding a coin in the street and someone taking him on the spot for a moving job just made it that little bit easier. Best of all, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of John for the rest of the day, nor any member of his little group of cronies.

By the end of the honest man's working day, he had amassed quite the pocketful of small coins, whose clinks were muffled by the little bits of paper which were the rationing coupons, with which they were mixed in a chaotic mess. The streets were silent apart from the distant sound of a wooden shutter being closed, and the raucous laughter coming from the pub's open doors.

Before he headed back, he had to go by Annie's to get some vegetables for his mother and his meal tonight. It would probably be potatoes again, the so-called "food of war" having become, like for many other people, their staple carbohydrate. Reiner sighed, thinking, the chips he had grown up to enjoy on the docks would no longer taste so nice once he moved back to his hometown. He would probably never touch the things again.

Annie didn't look surprised to see him a second time that day, instead keeping her gaze just as stony as usual. Their exchange was wordless, the girl knowing exactly what her regular wanted. At last, as he felt his remaining pockets bulge with the produce (paper bags for groceries were rationed, like everything else) he made his way towards the door, raised a hand and shot her a "see you tomorrow!"

She smirked at this, adding as the little bell above the door rang when pushed:

"Sunday tomorrow, I need my day off like everybody else. And don't expect me to come down to see you just because you "felt like popping around to say hello". Marco pulled that trick once, and set off with his coat full of apples as soon as I turned my back on him. No, you will have me once, but not twice, that I can guarantee."

Reiner hid his smile by turning his back on the acerbic shopkeeper before replying.

"Sorry, the days do seem to meld into each other over time. Nothing much changes, you know?"

"Well, I would have expected you to have been the person to look the most forward to Sundays, to tell you the truth. You _do_ work hard, I have to admit, even though your head sounds hollow when you hit it."

"Well, thanks, Miss Annie. I will treasure that comment and ponder its deeper meaning tonight, and probably for several days to come."

"Why, you!…"

He quickly exited the shop before she started throwing heavy objects in his general direction: he didn't actually want to find out if his head was indeed empty or not, and even less so by having it split open by his enraged boss. She hated people who didn't take her seriously, of which he was the only remaining living example.

So it was as he was laughing his head off, and probably looking like he had just emerged from being put under at the dentist's, that he was knocked over by someone coming down the street too quickly in the other direction.

He sprawled on the ground, some potatoes escaping from his pockets and bouncing their way to the nearby gutter. It wasn't easy to knock him over. As John had demonstrated earlier on, it was easier to trip him, letting gravity do the heavy work rather than taking the effort to push him off his two stable feet. The person must have been going very fast, maybe even running, and would have had to be tall enough to…

He turned his head sideways, and caught a glimpse of a narrow face, a dark chestnut fringe of hair parted three ways…

 _"You!"_ they said simultaneously. And the potatoes were forgotten.

Anglicised name in this chapter: 

-Jean Kirstein: John Redstone (unintentional reference)

Edit:fixed


	3. Chapter 3: Cocoa brings Comfort

Chapter 3: Cocoa brings Comfort 

**This chapter contains a semi-graphic description of a beating (could be considered as domestic violence), discrimination, bullying, threats, mentions of anti-semitism, mentions of suicide, mentions of harm towards animals and mentions of wartime terror and paranoia. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

The singing of the cockerel would, depending on the person, either annoy them or be a nice reminder of the fact that they were in the countryside, safe, away from the scary, blitzed cities. For Bertholdt, both of these things could be applied, somewhat differently and in a certain order though. It just so happened that his assigned sleeping spot was also in close proximity to the hen's, geese, and of course, the noisy male gallinacean.

Every day, it would screech and wake the deep sleeper more efficiently than the best of alarm clocks. It always chose to do so at around half three in the morning, as far as Bertholdt could tell, and every time it did so, he would be reminded of a certain recipe he had heard of, some years back. Coq au vin, if his memory served him correctly. Not the sort of thing he would salivate over usually, but it did seem incredibly appealing when his stomach would just be rumbling like some starving giant's, and his morning bad mood kicked in.

Then, when he overcame the urge to strangle the cockerel then and there, he would look around the dark barn, sometimes shudder, but would end up pulling his knees towards himself and winding his arms around them. Then he would sob.

It would last for about a quarter of an hour, the silent cries muffled by the jacket he would put on his legs for that purpose. He would remember everything he had been through, the horrors he had witnessed, the ones yet to come. He would worry. He would think of the ones he had left behind, and he would experience the horrible feeling of his insides being squeezed by guilt. He wondered if anything will be left, if he ever had the courage to retrace his steps. He hesitated a lot, between maybe going back there immediately and facing whatever consequences he had to, or staying here, a place that couldn't be called a haven, but at least allowed him to live, like the ones he cherished so much had wanted in the first place. Sometimes, he would simply pray for them, and he was comforted in the fact that he may have done something good for them, somehow.

When the last of the tears and mucus were finally wiped from his face, it would be about time to start work on the farm. He would get up, shake his jacket out (hay tended to stick to it easily), and put it on, not minding the tear-stained lining in the slightest. He would always cry into the lining, never the outside. The Tenards didn't know about his little morning ritual, and would probably do something if they did. And it probably wouldn't be pleasant. He couldn't take the chance of looking weaker than he already seemed to them. He would then let the hens out, or whatever other task which needed to be done in the early morning.

But not today.

It started out normal enough, the cockerel splitting his eardrums as usual. But just as he was about to fly into his daily fit of stewing rage, he stopped. Agony. Pure and simple.

Unaccustomed tears of pain rather than guilt sprang to his eyes, different in the fact that they didn't spill over the edge as he would let them any other morning. When the first waking wave was over, he cleared his mind of all unnecessary images of ominous figures in large leather coats, and tried to make sense of his surroundings.

Bales of hay lay silhouetted against the half-light, all neatly stacked one on top of the other. Gradually, other shapes would be cut out on the dark background, things such as gardening tools, pitchforks, and a cat sleeping next to the water trough. A dull thudding sound was heard on the roof, which, when matched with the slightly moist air, could be interpreted as rain outside.

All these things, that he had learned to know in the last few weeks, should have calmed him. It was all too dark. Darkness could not be good. And the pain was back again, searing nails being raked down his back.

He fumbled a little, feeling an unfamiliar object which he had been lying on in the hay beneath him. He picked it up with his trembling, sweaty hands, feeling his way around it, trying to make sense of what it was. It struck him. A torch.

The little switch was clicked to the "on" position, and a light stronger than expected flooded the barn. Bertholdt held the object closer to himself, the beam swooping quickly from one place to another at first, but then gradually slowing down as his heart rate did. Everything was clear now, the thoughts in his head now going back to yesterday's events rather than focusing on things that were now part of his distant past. He felt a twinge of guilt completely unrelated to this, probably to be blamed on the deeply-ingrained habits of his childhood, at having flicked the switch of the torch in the first place. Yet again, it had been some time since he had actually taken care to respect the customs; would it really make his case any worse if he added yet another rule to the list of countless ones he had already broken?

Despite this, he did not regret his decision. He had more important things to think about. He needed to remember, make sense of the reason why he could barely move today. Slowly, his brain pieced together the events, and he winced as every single detail came back to him, just as vivid as if it had happened seconds ago.

The nap in the hay loft. The broken fence. The escaped cow. The blond German person he had saved in the woods. The mad mother. The gift, this torch.

And after that?

Well, a pair of furious faces, no, more than just two. Four. Six. The whole family.

All the Tenards had been there when he got back. Without the precious cow.

Shit.

After that, memories flooded his brain in a great rush. An angry, vice-like hand grabbing his upper arm, pulling him away from the curious client's eyes. Being dragged into these very stables, the corner hidden behind the tool rack. The one place he never went of his own accord, where the post used to slaughter fowl was, as well as the beam from where pigs hung, their throats slit open in a red, toothless smile. He had been ordered to take his shirt off, why had he agreed to do that? The answer came easily: complete and utter terror, so intense that his hands still shook from the simple memory.

He had been told to kneel, and turn his face to the wall. The rough brick was stained dark with various kinds of animal blood; he should have been disgusted by it, but he wasn't. It was as if his fear had muted his normal thought processing. With every painful slash, he would have the image of a hulking figure dressed in a dark coat flash before his eyes, towering over him. Every time he would be seen from a different perspective, glimpsed from inside a wardrobe, between the leaves of a bush, and even, when a particularly harsh blow struck his shoulders, he had seen him up close, an impossible head or so taller than his standing form.

Once his ordeal was over with, he had pulled his shirt back over his head. He hadn't cried, of course. This sort of thing was not something to cry over. He had felt blank, empty, and fatigued. He had hit the bale of hay he used as a bed before the Tenard had even left the barn.

And now he was paying the price of not having tended to his abused back as soon as possible. The blood had clotted as it should; forming scabs, but the fabric of his shirt had stuck to the wounds as well. He will have to take the shirt off, but it would be an agonising process, and will allow the wounds to open up again and be more vulnerable to infection.

He decided to not attempt anything as long as he only had torchlight to work by, and suck it up for his first round of chores. He was not prepared to discover what further angering the Tenards would lead to.

Bertholdt held his breath, and braced himself as he sat up. Pain flared, as bad as it was when he had first come to discover it this morning, but it was over quickly, only leaving a dull throb to take its place. The same thing happened several times, as he swung his legs over the side of the hay bale, got to his feet and rose fully. The farm-hand felt a warm stream of liquid run down his back, and knew that he had cracked the scab of the worst cut. He ignored it. He was late enough already.

The chickens hadn't lain well, and he only had four eggs to put in the basket on the kitchen's window-sill. He was able to get that task over with quicker than usual with the torch, which actually made things quite a bit easier. He found the pail for the cow's milk without having to fumble around or remember where he had left it the day before, or even figuring out where Azalea might have hidden it. The Tenard girl may have been only around eight, but she was the one who was the most adept at teasing and putting the poor farm worker in trouble.

The milking would, as usual, take up most of the morning, the sheer number of cows as well as the fact that it was a tedious process in the first place contributing to its length. Bertholdt was allowed, for this, to light a small, old paraffin burner, so that he had a small amount of light to work by. He did so as usual, finding the torch impractical in this situation, and wanting to hide the fact that he owned it from the Tenards. It would be broken quicker than he could blink once they found out about it, he was certain about that.

So he worked until sunrise by himself, under the small covered area used in this kind of weather. It had slowly become worse, and was now bucketing it down. The farm-hand even stopped at one point to check that the tiles hadn't been pulled off the barn roof by the watery onslaught. He was already cold enough at nights; he didn't want to wake up soaking wet as well.

He was joined after a while by Cherished, the second-eldest daughter of the Tenards. Bertholdt didn't mind her company; she was easier to deal with than the rest of her family put together. She put some effort into the farm duties, rather than just staying at home or going to the big cities on weekends to be spoiled by their mother like the rest of her sisters were. The best thing was, though, that she completely ignored Bertholdt, never saying a word, apart from when he did his work poorly. When that happened, she became just as vicious as the rest of her family, but at least there was an ounce of reason in her hatred.

Right now, she was sitting opposite him, two cows and half-filled pails of milk between them. She was just as quiet as usual, and he even had the vague impression that she was avoiding him. She would wait for him to get up and pour the content of his bucket into the milk churn before doing so herself, and she dropped her gaze when he caught hers as well. Had she heard about what had happened to him last night? With the big, braggy mouth that her father had, he was more or less certain that she did. Maybe she felt sorry for him?

He snorted at this. A Tenard? Repenting? That was the funniest thing he had thought up in a while. He went back to his work, concentration drowning out any other absurdities that might interrupt him again. By the time they were finished, the mist which had previously settled on the fields had lifted. The cows were let out to graze for the day, their bells clanging merrily as they went off to find the sweetest grass.

The first part of his morning chores finally over with, he walked back towards the main house (which doubled as an inn, the Tenards' thinking that any way to make money was a good way to make money) to find a quiet place, maybe even a window to act as a mirror, to get a good look at how his back was faring. He had not been bothered by it much after the scab had cracked, and there had been nothing more than a dull throb rather than the lancing pain he had experienced that morning, even when he did something strenuous like picking up the milk churn. He hoped that it was a good sign for the healing process, he thought, as he made his way towards the farmhouse.

On his way there though, he crossed a car carrying the Tenard lady, most probably to the nearest large town for her weekly shopping spree. Rationing tickets or no rationing tickets, she would always find a way to get what she and her daughters wanted. The vehicle slowed down as she got nearer, stopping at the Bertholdt's level. The window was wound down a notch, just enough so that he could catch a glimpse of the now properly-styled red hair, and so that the aggressive woman could speak and be heard over the sound of the still-running motor.

"Dennis has got extra chores for you, stop procrastinating and get on with it!"

She then drove off in a billowing cloud of black smoke, chocking the boy as she did.

He started dreading what was coming, even trembling a little at the prospect of seeing the man again from his experience yesterday. He wasn't about to disobey though. He had learned his lesson.

After this, the time that it took for him to walk the path seemed uncharacteristically short. When he finally got there, he stopped by the back door that led to the kitchens, gaze lowered, waiting for the man to emerge and give his instructions.

The door opened and he emerged in a cloud of steam, a hand wrapped over a glass as the other was furiously drying the inside with an old rag. Even though he was on the top of the three steps separating him from his employee, he still wasn't able to look down on the youth. He barely even reached past his shoulders, to tell the truth, but that didn't make him any more intimidating to Bertholdt. He still shook as the shorter man looked him up and down disdainfully, and flinched as he opened his mouth and issued his order:

"Clear up the blood near the slaughter pole and on the switch. I don't want to have to make a new one if the dog walks off with it."

He turned his back on him and slammed the door in his face. Probably so that no more heat escaped. Or so that he didn't have to stay in his presence any longer.

Still, he shouldn't reflect on that, there was work to be done.

There was indeed a little blood splattered on the walls from yesterday, and a trail on the floor leading to the nearest hay bales. It took him some time to scrub the worst off, but the brick and concrete had absorbed part of the liquid. When he saw that he could not do much better, he straightened up, but had to slap a hand over his mouth as he did. He had gotten up too quickly, and had yet again cracked the scabs adorning his back. He took his jacket off as fast as he could so that it didn't get coated in the red liquid, and remained motionless as the flow abated. Slowly, cautiously, he took a step forward and went about his next task, which was finding the dog.

As the Tenard had predicted, the animal had set off with what it saw as a tasty treat. After some research, he found it on the front porch of the inn, a place where patrons would sit on nice days and play cards, drinking good Somerset cider as they did. He wasn't allowed in this place usually, so he tried to keep his head beneath the level of the windows. The old collie was unfortunately very unwilling to let go of the half-chewed piece of wood, and growled menacingly every time Bertholdt got too close. He had no choice anymore, if he didn't want to miss his meal, he needed to get that switch back.

He picked up a metal dustpan which was leaning against the wall not too far away, in case the animal lunged for him, and quickly swiped his hand in to get the stick. As predicted, it attempted to bite him as he did so, but he stumbled backwards quickly enough so that he didn't have to use his improvised weapon on the senile animal. He may have been scared of the dog, but it was nothing compared to the plummeting sense of dread he got when he turned around to get off the porch.

She was standing there, maybe three or four heads shorter than him, a frilly blue dress better suited for a Sunday complimenting her eyes and golden locks nicely. An innocent smile lit her face, but Bertholdt could see the mischief well disguised in her eyes. More than the mother, more even than the father, as much maybe as the blond men in black coats, did he fear this little girl. Azalea.

"Bertie, what are you doing here?" she asked sweetly, the sound of her voice nearly giving him bladder failure.

"You're supposed to be with the cows! Or maybe clearing out the poo. That's where you're supposed to be. Yes, I'm pretty sure of that."

Please, oh God please let me just get away with a round of insults.

But it was not to be so.

"I should tell Daddy about this, you know. It's naughty to slack off, particularly when the only reason that you're allowed to stay here is because our family is so generous. I don't want you to be kicked off the farm, but sometimes, it's better to do so, we don't want to become bankrupt because of you, don't we?"

Her toothy smile froze him on the spot. He didn't even tremble anymore, his only need in that instant being for the predator to move on.

"But still… that would mean that I would have to do farm work, and I don't want to do that. I wouldn't be able to play the piano anymore! I'll have callouses!" she wailed, grabbing one of Bertholdt's hands and comparing it to her own.

"Just remember to not be naughty again in the future. As soon as a new carriage of city people comes over, Daddy will be able to take his pick of brand new Berties to replace the broken one."

And with that, she released his hand and skipped back into the main dining area. Bertholdt didn't move for a while, trying to get over the experience, and finally letting a shuddering breath escape him. Remembering his waiting meal, he quickly ran over to the kitchen door, not forgetting the switch which now sported extra bite marks.

He had a bowl of mashed potatoes and various other vegetables, which was still slightly warm, but not enough to shake the chill in his bones following the wet morning and his encounter with the terrifying girl. Thinking it over again, he deduced that her threats were not empty. It would not surprise him if he actually was fired as soon as Dennis Tenard would be informed of his daughter's plan, and that new evacuees hit the countryside. It was inevitable, now that he thought it over. Nobody else was likely to hire him, and he would either have to go back to the blitzed towns to find some meagre-salaried work, or else take up a vagrant's life, stealing apples and sleeping in public buildings in order to survive. A third option came to him, but he quickly shoved it aside. That was out of the question. He could not go back to the continent, no matter how tempting the thought was; that would be suicide.

Might as well enjoy what you've got while you've got it, Bertholdt concluded, biting into the bitter diner. He still had to wipe the switch down, which shouldn't take too long, and he should have at least an hour to himself before it was time to start harvesting the apples…

"Berthold! Go and find that cow right now! And if you're not back before sunset, I can assure you that you will have to pay for the animal!"

He was up and on his feet before the man had even finished the sentence. He didn't have a lot of money, the Tenards claiming that the roof above his head and the daily meals didn't allow him to complain. The rest was again taken off him by the money-greedy household when he needed his clothes washed, and even that he couldn't afford every week.

If he had to pay for the stray cow, he was done for. One thing he wanted even less than to walk aimlessly around the English countryside was to be thrown into the jail for a crime he hadn't committed. Yes, he would be warm and have a decent amount of food for a while, but what then? No, it wasn't worth the risk. He might even be kicked out of the country.

He hastened along the road to the nearby town. His logic was that if anybody had seen the bell-less cow, they would have talked about it to their friends, or would still be in village-like town at this hour. Farmers had to sell their produce somewhere, after all.

There weren't many people along the road at this time of day. It was still the time when people would be eating, or enjoying some conversation or another with friends and family. Not trudging the muddy roads. The dirty path only made him more and more anxious about whether or not he would get back in time, so he raised his eyes so as not to have to deal with that. The sky had cleared a little, just enough blue to make a pair of sailor's trousers visible in the ominously still mass of grey. Through that small hole in the low fluffy ceiling, Bertholdt saw a little white sliver, what was left of the moon before it disappeared completely for that part of its cycle.

It was strange, really. He decided to take it as a sign, but of what, he did not know. Maybe good luck.

He had not been to the town many times before, seeing as he had no money to spend there, but also because he knew that his origins will not be to his advantage. He never had the time either, which must have been the main reason, now that he thought about it.

Still, the streets were empty when he got there, apart from a single young man walking in the direction opposite to his own. He didn't know the place and couldn't quite decipher all the shop signs, but he still wasn't prepared to call out to him and ask his way.

He walked from one end of the village to the other, all the while glancing around for someone he might have met at the inn, who knew where he came from and wouldn't see him as suspicious, but he found none. Men soon started pouring out of the pub and various other buildings, and the more there were, the more nervous he became. He came to a decision as he found an alley between two shop-fronts, at the end of which he could just about glimpse a chink of blue sky.

The numerous crates catching on his gangly legs did not help in his quest for solitude, but he got there in the end. He was now surrounded on both sides by picket fences, which enclosed gardens and vegetable patches. Ahead of him, a small path cut the one leading from between the gardens perpendicularly, and he could see that it lead on one side to the small road that lead to the church on the hill.

It was while he was doing his nervously quick observation of his surroundings that he spotted a flash of brown piebald coat and a sweeping tail. The garden to his right was not as well kept as the rest of the ones he could see from his current position: between the now near compulsory potato plants, weeds poked their ugly heads, and rotting furniture as well as old boots (not a single viable pair though) were strew everywhere as if thrown about by a giant, ill-tempered baby. This was not what caught Bertholdt's eye, though: at the far end of this garden, half hidden behind an upended sofa and loosely attached to one of the wooden pickets, a fine cow could be seen ruminating nonchalantly.

"Rose!" he said, just loud enough so that the animal would raise her head and look at him with eyes he believed to be defiant. He made his way around the fence, and started tugging at the knot that held the cow there.

"OI! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

The farm hand jumped a foot out of his skin and nearly ran off in the process, but at the last minute decided to stand his ground. Above all, he did not want to go back to the farm empty handed.

He pointed to his chest and said, insisting on the single word: "Mine."

The person who had surprised him chuckled, before revealing himself completely to the would-have-been cow-thief. Freckles spangled his face unevenly beneath a mop of brown-black hair. He looked surprisingly friendly, despite his incredibly scary angry voice.

"It's all right. You can have your cow back, but you have to prove that she is yours first, yah know, so that I won't have to call the cops or use this on you," he said, lifting the twelve-gauge he was holding in his left hand a little higher so that he could have a better look at it. Bertholdt swallowed painfully.

"So, how about a little test, then? Why doesn't this cow have a bell?"

This was worse than he thought. He understood the question, just about, even through the heavy coating of a thick accent. Bertholdt took a deep breath; this was not a something he could answer in just a single word, he would have to use a complex sentence, his vocabulary lacking the one word that would get him out of this mess.

"Cow…geht's caught… " he made a strangling motion with his hand, making sure that he was well understood.

The mysterious person raised his gun slightly…

Crap, it was the accent. He was done for.

… then let it fall, laughing light-heartedly and coming over to where Bertholdt was. He clapped him on the shoulder and stuck out his hand so that he could shake it.

"Fair enough, you can have her back! I've milked her dry for today, I need some sort of compensation for having found her and kept her safe, you know. Name's Marco, by the way. Want to come in for a drink?"

The farm-hand shook his head. He needed to get back to the Tenards as quickly as possible, maybe then…

Marco's eyes narrowed slyly.

"I've got coffee, tea and cocoa, you know."

This made Bertholdt stop and think it over a second. Either this guy was playing for time so that he could call for reinforcements, or he truly did have the delicious beverages he had mentioned. Risk it all for a warm drink? His previous reflections came back to him, but this time the rain's renewed vigour and the throbbing, warm pain of his back added to the huge weight on his shoulders. A weariness like no other he had ever felt took hold of him, not even in times he now considered darker than these.

"Hey, you look like you've just gained ten years. You all right?"

Bertholdt looked up from his hands to Marco. He had look of genuine concern in his eyes, which, surprisingly, also showed on his face. In these situations, people tended to not show their feelings so openly, but this person did so even with a total stranger, and a suspicious one at that.

This was what persuaded him to follow the freckled chap inside.

The room they entered was small and cluttered, but cosy. A bench and a stool were the only things that were available to sit on, and even those had to be cleared of the colourful leather that was pilled in high, unstable towers. A tiny wood-burner was set up in a corner, heating an old, beaten-up kettle. A wooden working bench was sitting underneath the only window. It was littered with various tools and the leather which had been moved there, as well as strange wooden devices, and what could have maybe been the skeletons of shoes. Piled up underneath the desk were even more shoes, boots, and other leather footwear, but these were old, losing their sole or scuffed beyond polish.

"Yeah, well, I'm a cobbler by trade, but there isn't much work with all the rationing and stuff, so…"

He sighed, before slumping on the bench, leaning his back against the wall.

"I was taught to make nice, fancy women's shoes, all frilly and shiny, but well, people just don't have enough tickets or akka to get those. So I repair things, old farmer's boots and stuff like that, but it just isn't the same, you know? I don't get much money out of it, and I don't enjoy it as much."

Bertholdt had to battle through every single word this person pronounced; he could usually understand just about anything people told him, but this regional accent was just awful. He had heard it somewhere before, he was sure, but still…

"Irish?" he asked, pointing to him.

"Hah, you got me there," Marco said with a bittersweet smile. "Born and raised Irish, yes, but my fidelity is to the King. I admire the royal family with all my heart, and the King in particular. Did you know he has a stutter, but still manages to speak in front of a crowd?"

The stable-hand nodded, not sure whether it was the right thing to do or not. Fortunately for him, the kettle whistled just at that moment, and the cobbler got up to pour two mugs, which he filled with brown liquid. He also dipped a small jug into a metal container, which emerged full of milk. The cup shoved into his hand was boiling to the touch, but it was good, his hands losing their stiffness when they came in contact with the ceramic. When he raised the mug to his lips, it was even better. The strong aroma burned his tongue as much as the actual temperature of the liquid itself, and when it slid down his throat, it was as if an ice cube that had been sitting there for months had finally melted. Just then, he allowed himself to relax a little in his comfort.

Next to the stove, Marco had poured milk into his drink, and was now stirring it with a spoon he had summoned out of nowhere. He had his eyes on Bertholdt, and parted his lips to formulate a question in a tone that could have been considered casual, were it not for the kind of information that was being asked.

"You German?"

Bertholdt stiffened, a painful jolt going through his back bringing him back to this cold, unfriendly reality.

He nodded.

"And… You're a spy?"

Marco's hand had shifted very slightly towards the shotgun, which he had kept by his side the whole time. The warm feeling had completely disappeared, even though the cup was still boiling hot in his hands. It was true. It will always be the same thing wherever he went; he would always be rejected, or looked down upon as something inferior. But still, this person had had enough faith in him to let him into his home and to offer him a bit of warmth. He owed him an answer.

"No. Jewish," he clarified, trying to cover his accent with the small number of words even though he was now out in the open. His gaze had dropped to his hands waiting for whatever response this person would give. Would he just be uncomfortable? Openly disgusted?

"You're a refugee then! Wow, you must have been through a lot. I hope that this country has taken care of you well enough, I know it can be a bit rough for newcomers sometimes…" His expression became clouded for a second, but it quickly changed back to its normal joyfulness. "If you want to have a chat sometime or another, just pop around, I'm usually in, or else I'm hanging around with John and the others at the pub or somewhere else like that. You should meet them! They're nice, even though they're a bit loud sometimes. And it's ok if you don't understand half of what I say, nobody else does either."

Bertholdt was stunned. He had never had this sort of reaction from people learning of his origins before; they had always changed their attitudes dramatically after learning of either his nationality or his culture, but this person remained open and kind, not taking into account any of them. And not just that, but did he just invite him to come over whenever he wanted?

He finished the drink off quickly before it cooled too much. It filled his stomach more than the meagre meal that he had been given earlier on. It was nice, he decided.

"I need…go back now," he said finally.

The generous cobbler offered him a sincere smile and a hand to shake, which he took easily this time. He followed him outside and helped detach the cow, who was wearing a leather head-harness much like a horse's rather than a collar. The rope acted as a lead, making it easier to cart the animal from one place to another than if he were behind it with a stick.

"Bye there! Hope to see you soon!" Marco called after him, waving from the junkyard he called a garden. The farm-hand waved back, still unsure whether what he had just experienced was a dream or not. But the warmth in his stomach was still present, a clear indicator of it having been filled recently.

The path behind the houses led back to the main road after a while, when you followed it a bit up the hill then back down through the streets of the small country town. Not many people were around at this time, although raucous laughter could be heard coming from the pub as he passed them by.

Funny, Bertholdt thought. The warmth from Marco's place should have disappeared by now, but he still felt it all over. His back didn't hurt anymore either, and felt just as warm as the rest. It was even so warm he could take his jacket right off and go to sleep in the middle of the street…

That was the moment that the rebellious cow chose to yank the rope from his hands and go trotting down the road. He snapped out of the trance immediately, catching a glimpse of the sky and seeing that the sun was not far off the horizon. No. He would never get back to the farm in time.

He ran after the cow, who, in a thought to respect circulation laws probably, had jumped onto the pavement to continue their chase somewhere where they wouldn't be knocked over by a car. They were going downhill, and Bertholdt went into full sprint. His legs were longer than the cow's, he should be able to catch her easily. He was now twenty feet, eighteen, fifteen away from the animal…

And that's when a shop door opened, a person stepped out laughing like they had just come around from being to the dentist's, and that he ran into them full pelt.

It was like slamming into a solid brick wall, the difference being that this person actually fell rather than staying indifferent to the harm it caused around it.

He groaned, having hit the ground way too hard for the taste of his wounds and stayed there for a few seconds, trying to recover. When he felt well enough, he turned his head sideways, and caught a glimpse of a heavy-set face, and short, crew cut blond hair…

"You!" they said simultaneously. And the cow was forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4: Potatoes bring the doctor

Chapter 4: Potatoes bring the doctor

 **This chapter contains a character suffering from a severe fever and case of wound infection, another which uses the "them/they" pronouns, the (medical) use of a syringe, non-graphic descriptions of medical help, and mentions of amputation. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

 _"What are you doing here?"_

 _"Wait a minute, you speak my language?"_

 _"Of course I do, I'm German!"_

 _"Wait, what? Really?"_

 _"Yes! Can you help me catch the cow? I was about to get hold of the rope, but you came out of the shop just at the wrong moment."_

 _"Hey, you made me lose a whole day's worth of potatoes, help me pick them up after."_

 _"Fine, but please, I can't afford to let that cow escape."_

They caught the animal, which hadn't run too far after all. They then dragged her back up the town road, attached her solidly to a ring set into the side of the building, and set to work picking up the wayward potatoes.

Meanwhile, Annie had poked her head out of her store to see what all the riff-raff was about, and when she had seen what was going on, had offered to keep an eye on the ungulate. Any distraction was good on these long evenings, and she did find it quite amusing seeing the huge guys having problems with the too-low ground. Her inner hilarity was suppressed though, when she saw the large dark mark on the back of the tallest boy's jacket.

"Hey, Reiner, what's wrong with your friend?" she asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice.

Both of them looked up to her, then Reiner's eyes finally followed Annie's to the spot she had been trying to attract his attention to.

"Bertholdt, what's that?"

The farm-hand was now utterly confused, but finally understood when they pointed to his back. He seemed to panic, tearing the jacket off and staring at it in utter horror. He tried to keep his back turned on the other two people as he did so, trying to keep a minimum of the seriousness of the wound away from them, but the blond had circled around him and now looked just as shocked as he expected him to be.

"Shit. Shit. Bertholdt, what…"

Annie walked as calmly as ever over to the red-faced boy, and reaching up as high as she could, slapped a cool hand over his forehead.

"You boiling, kid. If you don't go and see a doctor now, I'm not sure how much will be left of you tomorrow."

Bertholdt tried to protest, even though he felt his mind being addled by the fever even as he spoke.

"Und die Kuh? Uh, cow?" he argued, panic holding his brain in a stranglehold at what the Tenards would do when he set foot back on their grounds. The unintentional outburst of German did nothing to help this as the blonde girl narrowed her eyes at him.

"How stupid could you be to care more about a fucking animal than yourself when you're in this state? Reiner, get Doctor Hange, I refuse to let this idiot out of my sight."

He obeyed immediately. It was unwise to not do so when Annie was like this, and he had been floundering over what to do until she had given him clear orders.

"Wait!... I… no money," Bertholdt shouted after him desperately.

"Shut up and get in the house, I don't give a shit about that, I prefer paying for a few bandages rather than having to clear up your corpse," Annie said acidly, pushing him through the glass-paned door before slamming it closed. The little "Open" sign was reversed angrily, while Bertholdt swayed and tried not to pass out. The world had started spinning rather badly, and he felt like throwing up. The small shopkeeper then came over to him and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him along through the "Employees Only" door and up a narrow set of stairs. This was too much movement too fast for him, and he tripped and fell on the steps that were too small for his large feet.

"Come on, I'm not going to carry you to a bed, aren't I? It isn't much further now, just the last few steps and on the right from there," she added in a softer tone. He might have been ill, Bertholdt was still scared of the aggressive female and cringed away from her at her earlier remark.

They got there in the end, and she shoved him into the bedroom with the only bed long enough to accommodate his frame. She got him all the blankets that she could find, and then rushed down to draw a large jug of water and glass to go with it. Next, she dragged a small gas heater up to the bedroom and got it going as quickly as possible. Finally, she got a wet cloth and literally threw it in the face of the startled boy.

"Lie down, the doctor will be here soon," she said finally, sitting in a chair next to the heater with a newspaper that she pretended to read for a while.

Bertholdt looked at her hesitantly, before lying down awkwardly on his side, the ominous absence of pain from his back scaring him out of his wits. Annie just sat there though, as calm as ever, and the sight soothed him enough that he managed to let his eyelids close and darkness envelop him in warm tendrils.

000

"Doctor Hange! Please, we need your help!"

He had been banging his fist on the white and blue painted blazon for the last five minutes, his knuckles nearly scraped raw from having been slammed so many times against the rough wood. He could hear movement inside the house, but nobody was coming to the door, and it was getting increasingly worrying. He had to stop several times to take a puff from his inhalator. The stress and cold were not helping his condition in the slightest.

Where had all that blood come from, he thought, and why was he so intent on hiding it? Surely he would have asked for help if he needed it, he had saved his life yesterday after all, and he would have been glad to find a proper way to repay his debt. There was something fishy going on, he was sure of it, with him being so badly hurt, not wanting to admit it, and him being German as well. That was something he had honestly been surprised about. He had not spoken much when they were trying to get back to the manor house, true, but the few words he had used had contained no discernible accent at all. Yet again, when he had shouted earlier on, he had spoken German in front of Annie in his panic, and when he had corrected himself, he had had a very strong Germanic twang to his voice. He concluded that he would put a lot of effort into not showing his origins, more than he could ever, that is, and that he knew that he could speak the language beforehand, as well. Of course, he would have known when his mother had all but thrown him out of the house. He shuddered at the memory of the dressing-down he had received afterwards, about not giving away precious items, about not accepting anybody's help out of the blue. His mother didn't believe in debts. She took anything and everything that may help her feel more secure.

Just as this last thought dissipated to let a new one take its place, the emblazoned door flew open, barely missing his face by a few inches. The person who emerged was incredibly bizarre, someone you would probably expect to have a hidden lab under their house where they would try to bring rats back to life with electricity. Which was exactly what they did.

"Sorry, didn't hear yah, too busy zapping rodents. How are you?" they added as an afterthought, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe.

"Doctor Hange, your eyebrows…"

They looked puzzled for a second, before understanding what he was referring to.

"Oh, that? Don't worry, they just got burned off. They'll grow back soon." They let Reiner get over his stupor before adding: "What's wrong? Is it your mother, or do you need more medication?"

"No, wait, it's an emergency, this guy…"

"EMERGENCY? What are you doing waiting there, let's get a move on!"

They dashed back inside the house, the blond following closely on their heels. They dashed into a white-tiled consultation room and threw several pieces of equipment into a large leather bag, in a quick yet orderly fashion.

"Ok, what's he got? Give me all the details. I need details!"

"Uh, well, a high fever, trembling a little, and there was lots of blood on his shirt."

"Where? What? How? Come on, details, I said!"

"Er, lacerations, probably? And they're all on his back, there was no blood on the front of his shirt."

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"BLOOD!"

"Erm, yes, well, enough to soak through a jacket…"

The doctor remained quiet for a while, adding the last few bits of equipment to their already over-filled bag.

"Right, let's go. And grab that bottle on your way out; it's a refill for your mask inhalator back at home."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank the flippin' Red Cross for kicking me out again," they said angrily under their breath, before grabbing a grubby old green cloak on their way out.

000

Bertholdt hadn't slept long before he was awakened by the sound of a door slamming open, and in his panic he thought that it was some kind of authority from which he had been hiding which had come marching in to the little home. In consequence, he jumped out of the bed and looked around wildly for the nearest exit, which just so happened to be the window. He was halfway towards it before he fell flat on his face. His long legs had tangled in the numerous sheets which Annie had set out for him, and which she was now happy to have bothered to find, even though they had served a different purpose to what she had originally planned.

She did not laugh at him as she would have done in any other situation, and simply offered him a hand up and led him back to the bed. She was more or less certain that he wouldn't have remembered if she had done so anyway; his fingers were icy, and when she snuck a hand to his forehead again, she found it even hotter than it had been earlier on.

Bertholdt's thoughts were indeed muddled: he could only process a fuzzy mush of emotions through the pounding headache he had now contracted in addition to the fever. He tried parting his eyelids, just so that he could get a vague idea of his surroundings, but he shut them nearly immediately after having had his retina burned by a heavily shaded lamp. The soft cushioned surface was bliss, in the sense that it at least meant that less pressure was applied to his sore self.

Stomping noises and rapid conversation came closer and closer, and Bertholdt became yet again nervous with their approaching, but in a more passive, shivery way than the wave of terror which had engulfed him earlier. Finally, the door to the room he was occupying was drawn open, maybe more delicately than the others, but he couldn't be sure. It was already an effort to process the sounds and try and draw an interpretation out of them, let alone compare them to each other. More muffled conversation was heard, as well as the sound of people shuffling around the room, and a heavy object being dropped on the floor.

They now surrounded him. He could feel their presence, one on each side of the bed, one at the foot. He was completely at their mercy. Not only that, but he was lying on his stomach, even more defenceless than he would have been otherwise in the same situation. In a last ditch attempt he opened his eyes, forcing the glaring light to subside, to at least check whether he was actually going to die instantly or whether it would be drawn out. Because he was certain that whatever was coming, it would end in his demise. He had been waiting for this for so long, it couldn't turn out any other way, no?

000

As soon as the doctor had emerged into the room, they had let their bag fall to the floor in total disregard to its contents, and had gone directly to Bertholdt's side. They slapped a hand to their sweaty brow to check his temperature, and withdrew it rather quickly, either because they had been burned, or they had the answer to their question. They then dipped into the medical bag and pulled out various items: a pair of scissors, several labelled bottles, bandages, gauze, and at last, a small black box.

They opened this box and pulled out a syringe, which had obviously been stored there so as not to get smashed up. A small vial of clear liquid followed, and they talked quietly to the bystanders as they concentrated on getting the liquid into the glass tube.

"Right, he's delirious, this won't be easy. I'll need you to hold him down for me while I inject this, at least. After that, I'll do what I can, but it'll probably be better if you leave the room so that I can concentrate."

The two blonds nodded in silence, preparing themselves for whatever reaction the farm-hand would have to being handled. He looked even worse now that he was relatively still, the previously light coloured shirt a mishmash of dark brown stains as well as now being soaked in sweat. He was shivering as well, slight shudders that Annie was the only person to see as possibly not entirely caused by the fever.

Doctor Hange nodded their head slightly at them, signalling that they were ready to start. Carefully, they reached for the arm that Bertholdt hadn't trapped underneath his body, attempting to touch it without triggering a reaction. It didn't work well.

As soon as their fingers brushed the exposed forearm, he flinched, pulling the limb away in the same movement. Reiner, who had taken position on the other side of the bed, then reached over and attempted to force the arm out of its curled up position, but only got an elbow to the stomach for his trouble. Bertholdt was weak in this instant, but whatever he thought he was up against, he wasn't going to let them get the best of him without a fight.

He attempted to get up as he had earlier, but Annie was prepared for this, and firmly grasped both of his legs to stop him from leaping out of bed. He still struggled profusely though, and with Reiner useless while he recovered his breath, she didn't know how long she could hold him down. Fortunately, the notoriously insane Doctor Hange decided that enough was enough, and had wrenched at the arm they were aiming for earlier and stabbed him without further ado with the thin needle.

As soon as it came in contact with the vein which had been aimed for, the delirious farm-hand calmed down, even though every single muscle in his body was still incredibly tense. Little by little, he relaxed into the mattress, losing what little consciousness he still had left over.

Reiner came round from where he had collapsed, the blow having had more strength behind it than what he could have expected. The kid really thought that he was fighting for his life.

The doctor wiped their sweaty brow with their sleeve, keeping a close eye on the gently breathing body on the bed below them. They seemed to be observing the wounds through the fabric of the shirt, trying to see their real extent.

"Annie, I don't know if you've got a kettle of water boiling somewhere, but it would be helpful to have a large amount of the stuff for what I'm going to do next. Reiner, you can just wait in the hall or downstairs for now, but don't go too far, I'll probably need you later on."

"How about the water in the jug there?"

"No use. Not boiled, so not sterilized. Now get out."

With that, they waved their hands at them, all but shooing them out of the room.

"And don't forget the water!" they added before the door closed with a decisive "click" on them.

The two blonds looked at each other, Reiner with worry lining his features, Annie with her usual cold unfeeling stare. "Well, might as well get to it. See ya in a minute," she said, retreating down the staircase to the stove in the lower part of the building.

Reiner slumped against the wall a little further up the corridor. He shivered, the slight nip of cold present here, even though it wasn't in the toasty room which he had just left. On the other side of the thin wall he could hear fabric being torn and cut through, probably the unfortunate soul's tainted shirt. It was a little sickening hearing it and imagining the whole process, so he got up and walked to the small window at the far end of the hall.

It was dark outside now, which sent a pang of worry through him for his mother. He knew she could go a night without him, but still, she would look at him disappointedly again the next morning and would ask a whole lot of questions. And of course, no matter how truthfully he answered them, she would not believe him. It was one of those things that she had started doing more often since his father had left, her distrust and the control she wanted over him more apparent than ever. It didn't matter, though. He still loved her, and saw her as she was, needing it. She was ill, after all.

His eyes then drifted down the streets, and he saw someone pulling the cow as discretely as they could down the streets. Reiner was instantly ready to rush downstairs and run after the thief, but a little light coming from the full moon overhead shone through the clouds at that instant, revealing a brown mop of hair and a freckled face.

Ah, just Marco, then. He relaxed back into his previous position, leaning against the window frame. That guy was an odd one, but honest enough that he knew that the animal would still be there tomorrow morning, if not milkless.

He heard movement coming from the stairs, and spotted the top of Annie's head as she held a dish filled to the brim with slightly steaming water. When she got to the top, she glared at him, and Reiner bet half his wage that her next sentence would contain the word "idiot".

"Hey, idiot, do you think that I'm just going to kick the door down? I don't think Hange will be very happy about that, somehow."

He sighed slightly at the bet he could have won if it had had been a real one, and complied by walking over and pushing the panel of wood inwards.

Inside, Doctor Hange had moved over to the other side of the bed, medical equipment thrown about in a haphazard way across all the flat surfaces the room had to offer. Added to that, pieces of what could have previously been called a shirt littered the floor. Of what Reiner could glimpse of him, Bertholdt looked no better than before, a sheen of sweat and trembling still apparent over his whole body. Blood still covered his now bare back, but long horizontal welts were now visible, and they did not look healthy. A sheet had been ripped into rags, waiting patiently in a pile for the water they were supposed to be used with. The doctor snatched the water from the short girl's hands and dumped half a dozen of the pieces of white bed linen into it,

"Good, keep the kettle going, I'll call you when I need a refill. Now shoo, let me concentrate," they said, not even turning to them to address them properly.

Yet again they were unceremoniously forced out of the room. They remained silent in the chilly corridor for a few seconds, before a dull roar interrupted them in a rather rude and unprovoked way. Annie sighed, rubbing her stomach.

"Well, that's my call. Up for some stew?"

000

Reiner had little grievances on eating the same dish twice in the same day; stew is a versatile dish, and can be wildly different depending on the person who made it. Annie, being the greengrocer, used up all the out-of-date produce in this way. There wasn't much, on the scale of her shop. Nothing went to waste, and Reiner was actually pretty dubious on certain vegetables she added. But the end product wasn't too bad, if not a little earthy.

He didn't eat as much as he did with Armin. He had already had his main meal for the day, and he thought himself rather lucky that Annie had let him eat over as it was. She had set aside two extra bowls as well, even though Reiner was more or less sure that at this rate they will be containing breakfast rather than dinner. Or even lunch, in Bertholdt's case.

A shout came from the top of the stairs, and Annie rolled her eyes, pleading, no, demanding that he bring a new dish of water up to the loud overworked doctor.

He got up, poured the water into an extra dish that was waiting for this purpose, and made his way up the stairs as carefully as possible so as not to let any of it spill. He ended up in the same situation as Annie had earlier on, and had to call for Hange to come and open the door for him.

They did eventually, after having clattered around quite a bit and swearing as something was audibly crushed beneath their high leather boot. The handle turned, and they appeared with their hair down and glasses askew.

"Come and get the other dish, there's already enough clutter around as it is."

"I can see that," he said as he entered the room.

"Don't judge the way I work. I probably saved your friend's life tonight, be grateful for that," they replied, insisting on the one word.

Reiner sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This would follow him around everywhere, won't it?

"Look, it's not like that, I only know this guy since yesterday…"

"Which makes this all the more suspicious."

"Shut the fuck up, Hange."

"That'll be Doctor Hange, thank you very much. And can't you even let me crack a joke once in a while? It's sometimes nice to relieve the tension."

They turned their back on him at this, returning to their duty. As they did, Reiner decided that it was safe to sneak a peek. Bertholdt had not moved or been moved from his earlier position, but he was less pale than earlier on, and he was now mainly clean. A few bandages were wrapped around his torso, but one particularly vicious wound was still uncovered and had a few inches of black thread poking out of it, talking masses on the stiches which had needed to be applied there. Others were still inflamed and red from infection.

Hange used the rags to clean the remaining wounds which hadn't been treated yet. They were no longer paying any attention to the third person in the room, and the blond thought that maybe they had completely forgotten about them.

"Reiner, there'll need to be somebody to watch him tonight, check his temperature and such. Feed him in the morning as well, or get him to down some kind of liquid. I'll leave medication and instructions as well, don't worry. And please, find out who did this to him. This is not a matter to be treated lightly," they said, concentrated as before on the task at hand.

He nodded a little, even though they couldn't see him. He picked up the bowl filled with dirty water and rags and exited the room. He closed the door by balancing on one foot and hooking the inside-swinging door with the other, pulling it towards him.

Annie had had time to finish her meal, and was currently dozing off on the kitchen table. The girl had had a long day, he realised, she was in charge of a whole business, and was younger than him as well. He gently poked her and she opened her eyes, before looking at him apologetically. Interesting. She seemed to be more open when she was out of it.

"Sorry, bedtime for me. You can stay over, and tell Hange that they can eat whatever they want out of the pot on the stove."

"That's all right. Sleep tight…"

"Oh no you don't."

"…don't let the bed bugs bite."

The swat aimed at his head landed despite his effort to dodge it. He was left rubbing the sore spot as she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom.

The blond quickly imitated her, slumping in the exact same spot that she had. He stayed like that for a while, not actively trying to sleep, but not batting away the rest that it provided him either. Time seemed to flow differently somehow in this state of half-sleep, the tic-toc of the old-fashioned clock giving it a soothing rhythm. It was only when he heard the soft stomp of heavy boots that he raised his head and attempted to bat the sleep out of his eyes. He looked over to the clock. It was only a little past midnight, not that late really, but it had been a rather tiring day, after all.

"Hey there," said the doctor. "Got anything to eat? I'm starving, and I'll knock a bit off the bill if you feed me."

Reiner yawned and stretched luxuriously before replying. "Yeah, go on, just fish out anything you want from the pot. Annie was expecting you to stay and eat, anyway."

They didn't wait for further confirmation before jumping on the food. They filled their bowl to its maximum capacity and proceeded to do so with their stomach as well. It didn't take long, barely a quarter of an hour was all they needed.

Finally, they got up and headed towards the door. They smiled at Reiner as they lingered in the back entrance, even though the bags under their eyes indicated that they were more than happy to get back to their bed.

"His fever is down, but still, keep an eye on him. I suggest that you go and keep watch in the chair that Annie set out. It'll be better for him if there is a person that he knows there when he wakes up, rather than finding himself in a completely alien place without recalling how he got there."

"Why can't you do it? I'm just as tired as you are, and I need my beauty sleep as well," he added, more as a childish quip than anything else. Hange didn't take it that way, though.

"I doubt that, I was up all night yesterday with this Great War veteran and his amputee pains. And he was a real arsehole about it as well." They sighed, lifting their glasses as they rubbed their palms into their eyes. "I hate doubling as a nurse, but I have no choice. Look, if you find anybody with medical knowledge, please send them on, I'll hire them no matter how much they ask."

"Yeah, right, you say that yet you still have enough time to deal with your rats in the basement."

"That's got nothing to do with it!" they said, shouldering their cloak as they did. "I haven't got the energy to argue with a brat. Just shut up, do what's written on the paper, and call in if things get really out of hand, ok?"

"Fair enough. Goodnight, Doctor Hange."

"Goodnight, Reiner. Take care of yourself."

"I will."

And with that, they walked out of the door into the cold night air.


	5. Chapter 5: Jam brings Lazy Sundays

Chapter 5: Jam brings Lazy Sundays

 **This chapter contains mentions of rape, mentions of wartime terror, and an agoraphobic character. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

Reiner was awoken next morning by the sound of rustling sheets. It surprised his limited senses at first, seeing as he couldn't actually feel the sheets in question underneath his own body. Then the crick in his neck made itself known, and his eyes snapped open.

The room was dimly lit by sunlight streaming in through the curtains, revealing his surroundings and pushing yesterday's memories forcefully back into his skull. The only thing which had really changed since last night was the fact that the person who had been sleeping peacefully on his stomach was now sitting up in the large bed. He had pulled his knees up as a rudimentary shield and kept his eyes locked on Reiner all the while. He was trembling quite violently, not out of cold, as the blond would have assumed if not for the excessive amount of blankets and sheets covering him, but fear, as was shown by his unwavering gaze trained on him. What he had assumed was confirmed when he stood up from the chair to stretch out his sore body, and in that simple movement the sick boy cowered as far away from him as he could without resting his back against the headboard. This intrigued the blond, of course, but most of all saddened him beyond belief. He understood that his memories of the previous day must be muddled by the fever, but it was still a blow to see him so terrified. There must be something, maybe someone he was mixing him up with…

 _"_ _Wh…what do you wa…want of me?"_

It was nothing more than a whisper really, something Reiner had to lean in to hear. As he did so, Bertholdt flinched slightly. He caught the words, and his curiosity took over on his urge to leave such matters to lie.

 _"_ _What do you think I would want from you?"_ he asked in the same language he had been addressed in. Bertholdt swallowed painfully, a hint of sweat showing on his brow. Reiner hoped that it was not the fever coming back again.

 _"_ _Well, if you're one of the…them, I assume th…that the only reason I…I'm in this bed r…right now is… well… because…"_

He stopped there, visibly unable to continue. His eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other, flicking more often than not towards the window. This was too much for Reiner. He needed a clear answer, even if it was one he would regret asking for later.

 _"_ _Tell me, what do you think I'm going to do?"_

The few words, even though they had been said as softly as possibly, made the cow-herd flinch violently, before looking up into Reiner's eyes with a venom that he had never seen before.

 _"_ _I know that pleading never gets anywhere with your people, but I'll try anyway. Just, please, stop torturing me and get it over with quickly, do your dirty deed, but please just kill me quickly after that instead of letting me live through the shame."_

He quickly let his gaze drop after this outburst of his, seemingly regretting his words profoundly. He pulled his knees closer to his chest and buried his head in them.

Reiner was still thoroughly confused and came over to the bed on which he sat. It dipped beneath his weight, and Bertholdt just looked up to him, complete and utter despair and lack of hope in his eyes. Then it struck him. Did he really believe he would try to… force himself upon him? It was sickening enough knowing that other people did it, but _himself_? How could he possibly think that? He needed to know. One last question.

 _"_ _Bertholdt, who do you think I am?"_ he asked as quietly and carefully as he could.

He shivered. His back was still naked apart for the bandages, and Reiner was reminded of the angry red welts that he had seen marring it yesterday. They looked painful, and he still wondered what could have possibly caused them.

 _"_ _Well… An A…Aryan? A Nazi? I ho…hoped that you wou…wouldn't be when I first met you, but I'm not s…so sure now. I…I can't remember h…how I got here, a…and you were standing gu…guard, so I just assumed…"_

Reiner felt a familiar plummeting feeling in his heart as he heard this, but as usual, he did the only thing he knew would work in this situation: he laughed it off.

 _"_ _Really? Huh, I know I've got the physique, but I'm not even German, believe it or not. I'm British, born if not bred so. My parents moved here and founded their business in Bristol years ago to get away from the unemployment. I was born there, went to school and church there, even had friends there, believe it or not. I'm no Nazi, this is England, I would have been killed if I was,"_ he said in between giggles.

With each word, the tall boy relaxed a little, and by the end of his speech he looked embarrassed at his mistake. Finally he let go of his shins and nervously looked up into Reiner's eyes. There, he saw the hurt he had caused him, which he had tried to hide from him behind a cheerful wall of reassuring chatter.

 _"_ _I'm… sorry. I shouldn't have assumed that of you. I've just lived too close to that kind of threat for too long, and it bleeds into the present sometimes."_

He then attempted to get up, not in a panicked way, but more slowly and calmly, as if getting ready to leave for work. Reiner sent out a hand, and he froze in attempting to swing his legs off the bed.

 _"_ _You're sick, remember? I can't let you go like that. I promised the doc that I'll take care of you as long as I can."_

Bertholdt looked doubtful at this, and at last glanced down at the bandages snaking around his chest.

 _"_ _Please, can you tell me what happened yesterday? It's all a fuzzy mess that I can't get my head around."_

Reiner rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Where should he start? From the moment he had first met him? No, he probably remembered that well enough. From when he had first encountered him yesterday probably; even though he had seemed able to process things then, he still had a fever at that time as well.

 _"_ _Yesterday evening you ran into me while you were chasing a cow…"_

 _"_ _Shit. Where is the cow now? Has it been stolen?"_

Remembering how frantic he had been about the animal the day before, he raised his hands in a soothing gesture.

 _"_ _She's fine. She isn't here anymore, but Marco took her last night, so we'll just have to go over to his place to pick her up."_

He relaxed a little at the information (which meant he actually knew the person. Interesting), but only for a second.

 _"_ _It doesn't matter anymore, it's probably too late now. What about after that?"_

 _"_ _Well, Annie came out of the shop and found out that you were simply burning up with fever, and, you know, your jacket was soaked in blood, so she brought you up here while I went and got Doctor Hange. They patched you up, and that is why you're here now."_

Bertholdt had his eyes downcast as he heard this, the despair he had seen in them earlier coming back to haunt them. Finally, he sighed, but remained silent all the same. Reiner cleared his throat slightly.

 _"_ _Uh, Annie's probably still asleep, she tends to stay in late on Sundays, so would you like something to eat? And, uh, do you still have a fever? I need to know, if not Hange will not be happy. And trust me, it is best not to anger them if possible,"_ he added, in an attempt to lighten the mood, which failed miserably.

Bertholdt brought a hand to his forehead and frowned a little in concentration, before shaking his head sideways.

 _"_ _No, I don't think so. And I'm able to walk around, you know. My legs work just fine. I should get going, really. I'm already very late for work. I don't want to get told off…"_

 _"_ _No! Wait! Stop right there! You're still thinking about work when you should be resting up? You nearly died yesterday, I can't just let you walk around like that. As I said before, if Hange knew, they would have my blood."_

The taller boy thought this through wearily. He didn't feel comfortable staying here, and he would have to pay sooner or later, literally as well as figuratively. Still, he couldn't let Reiner know, he had already hurt him enough, even though he hadn't done a single thing to earn that sort of treatment. Apart for his appearance, that is. Ouch. He should try harder too not apply stereotypes, he knew how difficult they were to live with; he had first-hand experience of them after all. Still, he was not prepared to stay in this bed all day long. He had already revealed too much of himself, he needed to get all this sorted as soon as possible.

 _"_ _Look, really, I'm fine. I'll pay you all back when I can, but it's rather urgent that I get that cow back as quickly as possible. It isn't mine, and its owner can get quite irritable if things aren't done correctly…"_

 _"_ _Irritable enough to slash your back open?"_

Bertholdt winced. Reiner kept a strong gaze.

 _"_ _That's not it at all. It was an accident, I tripped, and…"_

 _"_ _I don't believe a word of it, but I promise to shut up if you come down and eat something, then that you spend the day resting and following the instructions that Doctor Hange left."_

 _"_ _Well, that isn't much of a choice,"_ he answered, raising his shoulders. _"All right, I'll spend a day away from work, but I'm not going to lie in this bed all day long though."_

 _"_ _Fair enough, as long as you don't strain yourself. We should better stop speaking German though; I don't want to get in trouble if someone overhears us."_

He nodded. Reiner gave him a hand up, and they were soon going down the stairs. The kitchen was still warm as they emerged into it, the stove having somehow managed to stay lit most of the night. Reiner revived the embers and brought a bowl of stew over to the table. Bertholdt was still standing on the threshold of the room, looking quite hesitant and scuffing his feet against the heavy flagstones.

"You can come and sit at the table if you want, it's not as if the chair'll swallow you up or anything like that."

He glanced up from the imaginary pattern he had made in the just as imaginary dust. Despite his impressive stature, he was a very timid and quiet person. He pulled the chair out and sat in front of the meal Hange had made sure to make watery by eating all the larger pieces of vegetable. He hesitated yet again as he saw the lack of bowl in front of Reiner.

"You… not hunger?" he said hesitantly, masking his accent out of habit rather than anything else.

Reiner shook his head. So this was why he didn't speak much when he had to use English, he reflected. It could become a problem for him in the future, and it would maybe be a good idea to see how bad it really was.

"Can you understand English? I mean, when people speak quickly, or with an accent?"

Bertholdt broke out in his usual nervous sweat out of embarrassment, hoping after the other day that he would leave this subject be, or even better, just ignore him completely and let him get along with his own life. Some things could not be undone, though.

"Yes, all but… not bad accent," he answered, adding as an afterthought, "not Marco."

Ah, so it was only his speech that needed work, then.

"You need to learn to speak better English, people could find it suspicious. I saw the look Annie gave you when you shouted out to me, but she isn't the kind of person to ask too many questions, fortunately. Don't speak German in the streets either, the Home Guard could mistake you for a…"

"…so we're housing a spy now, are we?" said Annie from the doorway. She was wearing huge dressing gown that swamped her, as well as a pair of old felt slippers and a golden aura of gold bedhair.

The farm hand immediately sprung to his feet, starting at her sudden emergence.

"Whoah, calm down kid, I was just pulling your leg. It's obvious to me that you're nothing more than some poor bastard who got caught up in this war unwillingly, like the rest of us. Now move over, I need to get to my seat."

She pushed passed him and sat down heavily in a chair with several cushions pilled on it so that she could eat off the large table properly.

"Reiner, add a carrot or two to the stew, will you? Nah, even better, there's some bread and jam in the cupboard, gimme that."

"Jam?" Reiner asked inquisitively, reaching for the sweet breakfast condiment nonetheless. "Where did you get that? Black Market?"

She rolled her eyes at him while his back was turned, before saying: "Where do you think all the half-rotten fruit which get crushed by the rest go? If you want someone to blame for smuggling and selling things illegally, go to Marco. He _is_ the Black Market."

The blond snickered as he cut the wilting leaves off the carrot he was holding. "Not that he'll ever make any money out of it. He'll fall for any stupid sob story."

"No…insult Marco. He's nice," said Bertholdt as he looked into the clear stew he had in front of him.

"Yeah, we know that, but just the fact that he has a ton of connections and still needs to rely fully on his job as a cobbler to survive is somewhat ironic. That's the thing, he's too good for his own good."

"Well said. And also because nobody understands half of what he says."

"That also."

Annie spread the thick fruit paste over several pieces of bread and passed them around the table. Soon, content munching was heard as well as the clinking of a spoon against nearly empty bowls and the roar of the recently restocked fire. The blonde girl swept her finger across the surface of the table to catch the last of the stale crumbs, while Reiner finally caved and served himself a bowl of the newly replenished vegetable dish.

"So, Bertholdt?"

He had finished his meal a while ago and had been lost in the contemplation of the bottom of his bowl. He snapped to attention at Annie's prompt to conversation though, his full attention transferring to her.

"I can keep you here today, but you'll have to go back to wherever you came from this evening. I've got a business to run and I just can't afford houseguests. Especially if he's here to stay as well," she added, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to the still standing blond.

"Hey, I barely eat anything!"

"I wasn't talking about that, you oaf, your very presence costs me more patience than you can ever repay."

"Well, thanks."

She turned to him instantly with a vicious reply on her tongue, but Bertholdt decided to step in just then, having grown tired and wary of any kind of conflict.

"Erm…I go now, er, _can_ go now."

"No, Hange wants you to stay here," Reiner said, shaking his head. "I won't go back on that. I'll come with you this evening as well, to make sure that you'll be all right these next few days."

This angered Bertholdt, and he slashed his hand through the air in a gesture that could be interpreted as "You broke our promise!"

"I said I'll shut up, I never said that I won't try to find out any other way. Besides, what will you have to lose? You tripped, remember?" he added with a smirk.

The farm hand went back to gazing at the bottom of his bowl. The clock now indicated that it was ten, and Reiner, seeing this, got up and pulled his coat on.

"Where do you think you're going, then? You leaving me with this lame excuse for a conversation because…?"

"My mother," he said simply, continuing on his preparations by pulling on his hat.

"Really? Can't you leave the old nag by herself even for a day?"

"No, she's ill."

"Not really."

"Yes she is."

Annie rolled her eyes again. "Fine! She is, then. She won't starve or freeze though, and if she needs anything else she can call for one of the other servants."

"She needs me."

A silence.

"And she needs to get out today."

She groaned. "Ugh, all right then! I give up. At least you'll be out of my hair for a while. See you this afternoon then?"

"Yeah, guess so."

He walked out of the room, and the bell-less squeak of the back door was heard as it opened and closed behind him. Annie got up and started busying herself around the kitchen, putting the cutlery and such away as well as wiping the surfaces with a handful of rags. Her guest had gotten up and had tried to merge with the corner of the room as soon as she had started on her activities, and simply listened to her as she hummed her way through the daily task. She would also often issue a string of curses at any given opportunity, when the rag got too dirty, when the fire needed more wood on it, and particularly when she had to pull out a foot-stool to get to the higher cupboards that she couldn't reach without it's assistance.

Bertholdt watched her from where he was stationed; finding the scene oddly calming and, well, _warm_. A bit like the warmth he had experienced the day before, when Marco had offered him a drink and had talked to him so openly.

This entire atmosphere was shattered though, when after maybe ten minutes of this silent companionship, the girl turned towards him.

"Er, you know how creepy it is to have a half-naked man staring at you from the corner of the room? Could you maybe get a shirt on or something? Or, you know, sit in a chair like anyone else? No, changed my mind, go and get one of my brother's old shirts, and drag a pair of trousers on while you're at it as well. I'll burn your other clothes later."

Berholdt's nervous sweat came back instead of a flushed face normal people would get from such a comment, and quickly scuttled away from the room as fast as his legs would carry him. He was just about to head up the stairs when he remembered something, and timidly poked his head back into the kitchen. He was just about to speak his uncertainly formed sentence, when to his relief, the reply came to him without him having to phrase the question.

"First room on the right, trunk at the foot of the bed. You're welcome."

000

The wooden door in front of him had paint peeling off of it in great grey stretches, revealing the wood underneath. He had not noticed this until now, simply because every time he faced this door, it was either too early in the morning or too late in the evening to have enough daylight to see it by, or else was too occupied to pay close attention to it. Today was different though. Today was a Sunday, and as so he had one major task at hand, one that he considered being the most difficult he would have to face all week long. It didn't seem that today would be an exception.

He knocked. A shuffling noise could be heard on the other side of the slab of wood, followed, as usual, by the slide of a chain in its metal holder.

"Son, you're back."

He nodded slightly, and she opened the door a little wider.

"So you've abandoned your mother again to go on your little ungodly activities, then?"

Reiner smirked softly, trying to hide the hurt that this comment caused him. "You really have no hope for your son, then?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "We need to get going now, it is late. Take my bag."

He did so, and then started on their weekly ritual. The woman would hesitantly step out over the porch, then look back inside. She would go back once, twice, three times, each time making up some excuse or another to do so.

Finally, after she and Reiner had made sure that they had taken everything they needed, they locked the door. They made their way down the path leading to the gate in the woods, but before they could get to the property's limit, the blonde woman turned around and frowned in the direction of the now far-off house.

"We forgot to lock the door."

Reiner closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Patience, he repeated over and over. I need to be patient.

Fortunately, years of practice had not been wasted in vain, and he followed his mother back to the place they lived without so much as trying to reason with her. He knew that such a thing was just as futile as repairing a chair with a spanner, and would only make things worse on the long term.

Once that he managed to get his mother through the whole process again, they were at last on their way, crunching through autumn's leaves on the forest path to the church. Even though Reiner felt at home on the familiar little road (of course, he had nearly died on it two days prior, but he didn't blame the beaten earth path), his radiating calm did little to appease the person walking by his side. She would frequently glance to the sides, eyes somewhat afraid, and maybe a little wild.

It would have probably been a little unnerving to anybody apart from him, he reflected. He saw her as _normal_ , of course, but maybe that was his soft heart speaking for him. He was, after all, incapable of hating people, even those who caused him the most pain, and he was not easy to anger either. This woman, who clearly only kept him around for the sake of her failing mental health, had dragged him from the one place which he knew his way around, where he had a semblance of friends, and yet he could only look at her tenderly. Or with mild irritation, at certain times, depending on how stubborn she was.

This weekly outing was the only thing that she willingly went on, and that Reiner very clearly approved of. After it, she always seemed calmed and took on jobs more vigorously and with more motivation than before. It was a pain to get her to do it on some occasions, but she would smile, be happy, for a few days after that. It was all worth it.

They got to the church as the bells just started tolling. The sky, which had previously been grey and rather overcast, had cleared like the previous day to a patchy blue. He looked down towards the opened church door, where he saw two bright corn-cob blond heads. One of the figuures, the more heavily dressed one, waved as soon as he caught sight of them, while the other looked down at her feet with a red tinge to her cheeks.

As he got to the imposing wood-rimmed opening in the building, he looked back towards the village. A small group of people were making their way up the hill, and smoky streaks in the sky indicated the many warm, heated households. When his eyes caught Annie's amidst all the others, he was reminded of the wounded farm-hand with a pang, and the unusual balance of intense hurt and deepest gratitude that he had been given by him in the last few days. He offered up a quick thought to him. Was it a prayer, maybe? It was something he still reflected over as he entered the cool stone building, his mother hanging of his arm.

000

Bertholdt had been looking around the room restlessly for the last hour now, his thoughts flickering over the last few day's events over and over again. That morning, he had tried to convince himself that he wouldn't let them get the better of him, but it was probably the remains of the fever acting up on him or something of the sort. He could not just stay there and do nothing, not when there were so many things that needed to be tended to and people he was indebted to and…

"Stop that this instant. I can't concentrate with your bloody foot tapping the floor, and you're sweating all over the place. Probably already ruined a perfectly good shirt," Annie sniffed, before turning her head back to the task at hand. She was making a skirt, blue and rather short, but more out of lack of material rather than by choice.

He did as he was told, only for a few seconds though, before the sweating started up again. It was a strange thing he had had for years, and no one had ever figured out why. All he knew was that it was embarrassing, uncomfortable, and not an advantage when being hunted down by a pack of hounds. For some reason, he had been glancing at the clock over and over again. Only after Annie had snapped at him had he figured out what he had been so eagerly waiting for. The only thing he didn't understand was _why._

He was eager for Reiner to return. True, he was the only other person with whom he could properly communicate, and he had been the one to get the doctor for him… Well, it was true that he had been turning over the thought of him apologising more deeply for his earlier mistake, but still, apart from being very embarrassing for both of them, it had not been that much…

There were other things bothering him as well, such as whether he should take the risk of escaping in the middle of the night, going back to the Tenards and licking their boots or something to get back in their good graces. He needed a job, and as they were the only employers he would ever get, he might as well do all that was in his power to get that work back. Unless he wanted to be thrown in jail for theft, that is. He had nearly forgotten that. He was now indebted by several hundred pounds. With a bit of luck, the threat was an empty one, but he doubted that Azalea would have let that lie that easily, with the sharp ears that she had, and would have made it as real as was in her power. She would not let an occasion to have so much fun pass her by.

A pair of hands slammed down loudly on the table, and Bertholdt yet again jumped out of his skin at the unexpected noise. A furious looking Annie turned to him, and he instinctively raised his arms to protect his face. She mellowed noticeably as she saw this, a rare flicker of emotion passing like the shadow of a cloud on her face. A tinge of pity tainted her words, maybe, as she said quietly: "Please, stop the tapping, it gets on my nerves."

He swallowed a little and decided to make his way back up the stairs to the room which had been lent to him. He had promised himself not to stay in bed all day long, not just to not appear lazy and a person who takes advantage of everything which is offered to him, but simply because even though he knew he was more or less safe, he could not let go of the nagging feeling that accompanied him every time he made himself vulnerable in an unfamiliar place. It had taken him weeks to shake the insomnia when he had first landed on the country's soil, and even now his body contorted into awkwardly restless positions at night.

Still, he was feeling curiously tired now, and maybe a little more at home (even though he obviously wasn't; the fact that he will never have a place to call so anymore was painfully familiar to him) than he had been for a long time. Against his better judgement, his body decided to flop down on the mattress and fall asleep, while he could only just consciously curl up on his side and think that maybe he was still a little bit exhausted after all.


	6. Chapter 6: Cows bring Downfall

Chapter 6: Cows bring Downfall

 **This chapter contains wartime terror (flashback), mentions of suicide, mentions of murder, discrimination, anti-semitism and a lot of angsting. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

It was late when Reiner finally got back to the small shop on the street corner. Annie greeted him with a huff as he arrived, and she refused to speak to him after that. She had spent the day at home, cleaning the house and doing various other small domestic jobs that she didn't have time to do during the week. Not just that, but she had had Bertholdt to deal with as well, even though he couldn't have been much of a bother.

Reiner didn't say so, but he had had a rather tiring day himself. Of course, his mother had been the main cause for this, but the fact that he had met quite a few people he had preferred not to bump into had not helped. John in particular had been a pain, eerily following them down the path to the manor for a while before turning back. He hoped that he wasn't planning anything serious.

He had to keep his promise to Annie though, and had come back to help her out with the injured farm-hand, as he had said he would, despite his mother trying to stop him walking off. She silently handed him a bowl of the same stew they had been eating for the last day. He didn't complain. War called for some measures to be taken.

The meal was quiet, with a certain tension that didn't bother Reiner that much really; he was used to Annie's moods, and understood her in a certain way. Still, it wasn't helpful. He had been worried all day over many things, and the main one being Bertholdt's health.

"So…"

"He went to bed and I haven't seen him since. I'm allowing you two to stay the night 'cause I don't think it's the best of ideas to wake him up now, and I don't want to throw that poor sod out with only a useless twat to take him back to whatever sorry excuse for a home he's got. Apart from that, he doesn't look too shit, and he was alert enough. No fever. You're checking he doesn't kill himself jumping out of the window again tonight. And yes, you can have the morning off tomorrow."

He raised an eyebrow. "Full pay?"

"You wish. Half," she smirked, not letting him get away with it. "You have plenty of money anyway. I heard your pockets yesterday, they were clanking about like you had shoved a whole tillful of coins in there."

"Alright, I'm going upstairs. Thanks for the meal," he said quickly to avoid the subject.

"Oi, I'm not finished with you!" she shouted as he made his way up the staircase. But she was too late, and only caught sight of his heel as the door to the bedroom closed on him. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She had been so close this time, so close to discovering what on earth Reiner was hiding from her and all the other people he knew in the little country town.

Still, she had work to do, she reasoned with herself, and left for the still toasty kitchen to clear the meal away. She did wonder, though. She did wonder.

000

That had been close. He resisted the urge to collapse in the chair which still hadn't changed places from that morning, and instead came closer to the bed with the prone figure lying on it. He did not look comfortable at all, with half his back twisted one way and an arm stuck awkwardly under his torso. Bertholdt's face was similarly twisted in what could have been pain, but his breathing was normal, and when Reiner brushed his fingertips lightly against the farm-hand's forehead, he only felt normal body warmth there. No excessive heat or icy cold.

With that, considering his job done, he went back to his previous plan of just dropping off in the chair. He sat, the piece of poorly-made wickerwork groaning under his weight. Reiner hoped above hope that it would be able to hold him for yet another night without collapsing; it certainly wouldn't be his favourite way of waking up, especially if it was to happen when shifting into a more comfortable position in the middle of the night.

His tired eyes cast their gaze around the darkened room one last time, stopping on the gently breathing mound of sheets which covered his recent saviour. Worry spiked in him again, postponing sleep for a little longer and bringing on apprehension for what he would discover tomorrow. Bertholdt more than certainly felt that way more than he did, he thought grimly, and would try to worm his way out of it if he was anything like him. He hated to see other people being dealt a bad hand in life, but as usual, his good heart would step up and try to be strong for the person in need. Even though he sometimes thought that maybe he needed a little help himself in his own fruitless quest.

It's never easy to have a selfless nature, particularly so in this world which seemed to overflow with eagerness to let the innocent be stepped on by the underserving. You would usually finish trampled yourself, at the end of the day. Still, it was worth it, mused Reiner as Morpheus invited him into his waiting arms; some people had to remain human enough to make up for the rest of them.

000

The chair didn't collapse in the middle of the night, but come early morning and a panicked Reiner jumping out of it, it decided to fall in on itself in defeat at this straw breaking the camel's back. It was barely spared a glance, however, as the now completely awake blond rushed down the stairs, grabbed his coat and flew past a bemused Annie.

He knew this was going to happen, he had even thought so last night, but with a bit of luck he knew where the injured farm-hand had run off to. Fortunately, there were no passers-by on the way to Marco's to bowl over as he ran down the still-empty streets, Monday mornings usually being quiet and somewhat sleepy in the small village-town. He cursed several times under his breath at the many things he had forgotten to check as he had left Annie's, at the things that could happen to Bertholdt on whichever way he had set himself, on the quantity of sticky situations he could have dragged himself into with that horrifying _stubbornness_ of his. He hadn't thought to check the untidy sheets back at Annie's, to see whether they were still warm and determine how long ago he had left. He hadn't even thought to ask Annie, the person who was the most likely to have seen him if he had left the house, with her insanely early waking hours she forced upon herself for the sake of her business. He had reacted instinctively, the only thought passing through his bleary haze of fear being _he must be at Marco's for the cow_ , and, _oh God I can't let him get beat up again._

He all but rammed the door open as he found himself in front of Marco's scruffy shop-front, with paint peeling from the around the windows and the swinging _Cobbler_ sign littered with air-gun pellet craters. He pounded the door with his fist, hard enough to make the whole building shake, before he finally heard the latch open. He froze as it swung his way, greeted by the kind face he knew, but accompanied by the not-so-friendly double barrel of the shotgun he was now pointing in his direction. It obviously took the freckled person a few more seconds to recognise that the blond on his doorstep was known to him, and was neither from the Nazi army nor a member of the Home Front come to arrest him.

"Ah, Reiner, nice to see you. How are you doing?" he said in between nervous chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away as he did. The person he had addressed didn't catch much more than his name out of the awkward greeting, but didn't seem to care about it either. Instead, he craned his neck to look past his shoulders into the room beyond, looking for something that wasn't stolen merchandise, obviously.

"Have you seen Bertholdt? Over six foot tall, gangly…" Reiner started, stopping when he found himself unable to continue the description, simply because no matter how close saving each other's lives must have brought them, he _didn't_ know the guy.

"Oh, you mean the cow-herd?"

The blond nodded so hard that Marco was briefly worried of being unwillingly head-butted, so he answered as quickly and as distinctly as his foreign tongue would let him.

"He walked off about five minutes ago with his cow, through the back gate."

This was all Reiner needed to set off so fast that his figure seemed to blur and leave an after-image in his wake. Marco slowly massaged his brow, wondering if this encounter was just the product of the vast amount of alcohol John forced down his throat the night before, the exceedingly long insomnia-filled night, and his rampant imagination. He shrugged it off, the scales being tipped by the fact that he _knew_ that the guy had to be in Annie's company by this time in the morning, and went back to his quickly cooling coffee.

000

A thin layer of frost had been left on the many autumn leaves that morning, and when Bertholdt looked back along the path he had taken through them, he saw with a frown that he had left a very clear trail leading all the way back to where he could still see the boughs framing the edge of the wooded area. He had _tried_ to be discreet, to not let any person too interested in the tall guy walking around this early in the morning put their nose too deeply in his problems, yet he had failed miserably at it, clumsiness brought on by pain and a general fuzzy mind. He had made several mistakes; letting himself be seen, soaking in the warmth and generally procrastinating at Marco's, and finally not thinking his options over properly and taking the path through the woods rather than the main road.

Just to spite him more, Rose had the decency to let fall a pat at that moment, just to make it even clearer to anybody on his trail that _yes,_ he _did_ have a large, healthy cow that was worth mugging off him, and that he certainly couldn't keep from being stolen off him if it were to happen.

He frowned, pulled on the leather harness that Marco had yet again left him (one of the only positive things that made his life easier in recent days, along with the coat he had insisted he take), and continued on his trudge down the path, looking over his shoulder dejectedly from time to time at the dark trail he couldn't possibly erase now that he had started making. In earlier days, that is, even a few _weeks_ ago, he would have never made a quarter of the mistakes he was making now. If he had, he probably wouldn't be anywhere near as happy as he currently was.

Maybe not happy. "Safe" would be the word to use here, even though, as his father had said some time back, everything is relative. The pain in the gut caused by pure, unaltered grief was totally unexpected, only making it harsher than usual. He literally doubled over, hoping above hope that Rose would get the message and not take advantage of the situation and run off on him again.

Painfully, every missed face, every detail of the times he had known as joyous flashed through his brain, one after the other, until he was left a sobbing, shivering wreck of a person, regretting not having taken the time to remember them better.

For a few seconds, he knew respite, the memories fleeing and a grey slate of a mind bringing on momentary bliss. Then came the horror.

He remembered the same faces, but this time everything was more vivid. These were memories that were impossible to wipe. His mother had had a steely, very neutral expression on her face, unnatural and not befitting her happy and somewhat over-the-top nature. His father, though, was the complete opposite; hair dishevelled and panic showing the white all the way around his olive-green irises. He remembered his legs, incapable of holding him up, the way he felt like he was falling forward rather than running as fast as the Ceryneian Hind. The morning had been cold, like this one, as well as rainy. He remembered this because it is what finally made him trip and fall in the end, his bare feet so numb with cold that he had not felt the injuries that the remaining stubble of freshly cut hay had inflicted on them.

Everything that followed was a little hazier, but still impacted him heavily enough that it still came back to haunt him. He felt the scorching tears that had blurred his vision the first time he had stolen something. At that time, the shoes had been necessary to his survival though. He remembered the weight of the small cloth bag his mother had pressed into his hands before he had fled, and it's constant, reassuring weight on his shoulder, up until that time he had had it stolen by someone who had probably had it as bad as him. He remembered the woman who had smuggled him and some others out of the country, and who had asked nothing in return, simply tapping the blood red ribbon wrapped around her hat with a knowing smile. He remembered stepping out onto the docks, cries in a language he barely knew a handful of words of being thrown all around him in a confusing mess…

It went on and on. He knew that it would stop sooner or later, or he tried to convince himself so, but the images kept coming, faster and faster, more and more intense, even remembering details that he couldn't have if he had been in his right mind. Rose tugged on the lead that he had been holding, and it fell away easily from his limp hand.

Regret was heavy on his shoulders, sitting there like a large bird would, crushing him underneath its weight, not allowing him to straighten up or do anything other than sit on his heels with his eyes staring at his palms. He had been a coward, as he had always been, putting himself before all others, preferring the death of other human beings over his own. And he was left with this. Every time he acted in a selfish way, no matter how small that action was, it was as if another twig was added to the faggot that burdened his already sore back. One day, his spine would not be able to take it anymore, and he would topple or snap in half.

He turned his left hand over. Why didn't he do so now? Why didn't he let it all go, just find a nice cold place to go to sleep, and never wake up? It was terrifying, of course, but it was less so than all the other options he could think up. And the Tenards could at last wash their hands of him and find a nice young lad to replace him, maybe somebody not so _useless_ and _broken_ …

He still didn't move though. The cold had maybe completely frozen him already. That would be nice, he thought, he wouldn't be difficult to find that way, and maybe when they found his yarmulke, somewhere deep in his pocket, he would be recognised and buried alongside his sisters and brothers.

 _If dreams can't come true, then why not pretend?_

As soon as this thought left him, he felt a heavy warmth drop on his shoulders. Maybe had he attained some sort of enlightenment which only those who have well and truly given up experience, that allowed him a last little bit of comfort before he finally passed away. That was nice, was his last thought before he caught sight of a puzzling pair of blue eyes, and that he thought that maybe he would not have the peace he had been hoping for.

000

Reiner had followed the path he had taken so many times before to get into town without having to pass anybody he knew on the main road, cutting through the grass when he saw the frosty leaves that had been stirred there.

As he was following the messy trail, he caught sight of a little movement in the distance. He got closer, and saw that it had been the swish of a piebald tail. The cow was still, seemingly standing guard next to the unmoving form that was hunched next to her legs. When he caught sight of Bertholdt, he crashed forward, tripping over fallen pieces of wood in his haste.

He didn't move at the loud noises, and for a moment the relief that had surged through him when he had first found the recognisable silhouette was sucked out of him in one heartbeat. Bertholdt's eyes were open, but glazed over, and his position looked far from natural as he sat hunched over to a sixth of his normal height. It was when he got close to see the small clouds of condensation floating out of his mouth at regular intervals that he managed to breathe again, or better anyway.

He eased the tightness in his chest a little using his inhalator, before pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his coat without hesitation and laying the heavy leather on the figure's shoulders. This is all that it took for him to look up, without fear, as Reiner had vaguely expected, but with more of a neutral, if not slightly puzzled expression.

 _"_ _Hey, what are you doing out here? Really, I would have thought that you would have learned your lesson with the fever you scared us with the other day,"_ he said with a little smile that he forced through the sadness that sat bitter on his tongue. _"And I haven't finished pestering you yet, I still need to make sure you're safe and warm and stay put for the next few days, so that your cuts heal and all. Doctor's orders, you know."_

Bertholdt looked at him with the same glassy expression on his face he had had as long as he had seen him today. Had he registered what he had told him? Obviously the humour hadn't helped his case much, maybe he should have…

Reiner was taken aback when he was suddenly lunged at, and the front of his shirt was pulled forward into a vice-like grip. He nearly raised a fist, ready to defend himself as he had had to do so many times before on the harsh city docks, but stopped, interrupted by a loud wail and the realisation that the piece of fabric that had been grabbed was being soaked in a mix of desperate tears and mucus.

He didn't know what to do, and for the first few minutes just stood there, before kneeling down to his level. He pulled the other boy towards him, encircling his thin frame with his arms, and let him cry himself out onto his shoulder. The cow stood over them, and strangely enough, seemed to understand their need not to be bothered, standing like the sentinel she had become.

000

What was he doing? He couldn't believe he had just broken down in someone's arms that way. What he understood even less was the fact that he did this was a near complete stranger, and not only that, but he was a very nosy one as well. He already knew too much, anything more and he would be putting himself in danger. But still.

What he had said earlier. Somehow, in his complete and utter misery, in what he thought was his last moments, he had come along and saved him. Like that. Expecting nothing in return. And not just that, but he did not push him back when he had reached up for him. He had given him his shoulder. That was more than what he had known in a long time. Too long.

He wept for longer than he thought he would, until he felt like he had no more moisture left in his body. Even then, he stayed there for some time, breathing in the smell of the fabric while trying to will his face to look like he had not been crying for the last hour, so that he could act like none of this catastrophe had happened.

He finally let go. Carefully, slowly, he lifted his head and wiped the remnants of snot from his nose, his gaze lowered as he felt Reiner's looking him over worriedly. He got to his feet, and his eyes still concentrating on a twig some way off, he offered a hand to the blond still sitting on the forest floor.

He grabbed it instantly, and with the few dregs of courage that he had left over took a peek at his face. He was surprised not to see pity nor disgust as he took what Bertholdt belatedly realised was his tear-drenched hand. His face was split from an ear-to-ear grin, but not a sadistic one as he had seen on similar blond faces before, but happy, and, buried deeply in his eyes sparkling or not with his own tears, a deep and undeniable _relief._

This is what convinced him to say what he needed to say. This is what, after days of denying it despite his selfless action towards him before, earned his trust.

He took a deep breath, and hurriedly, with a smile that was nothing but strained, he said:

 _"_ _Well, let's bring this cow back and introduce you to my employers, shall we?"_

000

The walk was a little longer than Reiner had expected, and it got a little weird when he was led over a broken fence and through a field filled with cows that seemed to him anything but happy to see people walking through their private space unhindered. Fortunately, they seemed to recognise the person who had been herding them for as long as their limited brains could remember, and the two youngsters escaped the sharp horns unscathed. For the time being.

The greater problem was posed by the cow they were currently trying to keep from bucking and breaking free at the sight of her friends, and in the end, Reiner, preferring to overcome his slight fear of the farm animal rather than see Bertholdt's scars opening again. He was surprised at the sheer strength that was required to keep the animal in line, and his admiration for the farm-hand only increased at this.

Soon, after some time trudging up a muddy slope, a roof and a smoking chimney came into view. It was a large farmhouse, and as they got to the top of the small hill, he could see that the building had small amount of cars and other vehicles parked in front of it, on a gravel driveway that did not look dissimilar to the one he knew back at the manor house. It was also flanked by what looked to be a barn.

 _"_ _The house doubles as an inn, and that,"_ he gestured to the barn, _"is where I sleep."_

Reiner bit his tongue at the questions which had been sparked by the sudden, trusting comment. He should not pry, let him tell you whatever he is comfortable telling you, he thought. Still, he did wonder why he had told him that. Was there some hidden information behind those few words? Was he maybe trying to tell him something without really telling him? The use of the present tense, for example. What could that mean? But he knew it, one thing he wasn't good at was deciphering things. He preferred to see things with his own two eyes, or be told things directly, rather than beating around the bush. Yet, in this one case, he couldn't ask him bluntly about it. He had revealed earlier on how fragile he felt, and he probably still was, despite having being visibly soothed by the long crying session. He would have to wait and see.

The most awkward part of the trip was getting Rose to get through the gate. She just wouldn't budge, despite being pushed and pulled and bullied in every possible way. In the end, Bertholdt just relented in tying her to one of the wooden posts on the inside of the field (he made sure that it was one of the more resistant ones), and they walked through towards the farmhouse cow-less.

Bertholdt, the one who actually knew the place, took the lead, but as they got closer and closer to the door at the side of the house, his pace got slower and slower, until it was nothing more than a shuffle. Reiner spotted the few drops of sweat which had broken out on his forehead, and worried briefly about the fact that he might have not quite pulled through that fever yet, before catching on to the fact that he might just be deathly _scared._

He knew where they were going now, and without thinking it over much, grabbed a wrist slick with perspiration and pulled Bertholdt forward. Before he knew it, he had raised his hand up to the door and had rapped his knuckles on the wood, the trembling form of the taller boy all but cowering behind him. It took some time before someone eventually answered, and Reiner, who had somehow been expecting someone large and ferocious, was surprised to come face to face with a particularly plain looking girl. She looked frightened for a second, before catching a glimpse of the person cowering behind him. She bit her lip in thought, obviously torn. Looking desperately between the two burly people on the doorstep and something out of sight in the kitchen from whence she came, she finally managed to squeak a quick and sincere "sorry" once clumpy footsteps and an angry voice both made their way towards where she was standing.

A short woman, sporting a halo loose hair escaped from her bun, glared through the door without bothering stepping onto the other side. The young girl ran out of the way, her head dipped in shame.

"What do you want? Clients go in through the main door, this entrance is personal only, so please would you have the decency to…"

Her face relaxed from the scowl which it had been sporting earlier on, into something akin to a smile. This gave Reiner second doubts. Maybe he had really been overreacting, maybe the farm-hand really did hurt himself accidentally, maybe…

But these half-hopes were shattered as he recognised the smile as being what it was, more a cold, sadistic mask than anything else. A little girl then popped out of nowhere, her small form covered from head to toe in expensive-looking material, and a smile so sweet that she looked like some sort of sugar-plum fairy.

He felt a hand clench the back of his shirt and a small whimper escape the throat of the person still covered in his huge leather coat. Bertholdt may have been scared up to now, but now he was positively _terrified._ Something had changed, he could feel it in the way his shaking had become more violent and his breathing more erratic.

The mother looked down at the little girl, who could only be her daughter judging by the way the woman bent down to murmur something in her ear. The small, cute face brightened instantly, and she skipped off with a giggle to wherever she had been sent to.

The woman finally walked up to the door, her smile disappearing little by little off her face as she came closer. Her scowl was back in place when she came to be about a foot away from Reiner, whose glare was not as scathing, simply observant, if not slightly wary. Anyhow, her eyes were not on him. They were fixed on the figure behind his shoulder, whose hand had loosened a little since the disappearance of the little girl. Was it maybe _her_ whom he was afraid of? It seemed quite extraordinary to him, as well as rather fishy.

"Tch, so you dragged your scrawny arse back to our doorstep, then? Bloody well hope you've got that animal back and some money, otherwise…"

Reiner cleared his throat.

"What do you want?" she said, eyes on him as if she had only just taken in his presence. He was standing _in front_ of the person she was talking to, how could she ignore him like that?

"I would like you to be a bit more respectful towards my friend, if you would oblige, ma'am."

She looked him up and down again, only just considering the fact that he must weigh more than thrice her skinny self. She took a small step back, obviously hesitating over continuing her onslaught, but decided that the best course of action was to try and defuse this potential threat while she still could, thanks to the hidden powers of small talk.

"I am sorry to have been such an inhospitable host. It's just that I'm a little bit ruffled, there are a lot of things to attend to here." She let out a chuckle which painfully insipid. "Anyway, my name is Claire Tenard, and welcome to the Tenard's Inn!" she said, stretching out a hand in an invitation to be shaken. So he did what anybody would do in his situation. He grasped her palm, small when compared to his own immense one, and signed his own death warrant.

"Name's Reiner Braun…"

It was only as he caught the carnivorous grin stretching across the woman's face that he knew he had said something that he definitely did not want her to know. He could feel his face instantly go ashen as she now looked down on him with her regained superiority, just as the little girl rounded the corner, skipping along with the hem of her father's shirt grasped tightly in her hand. Behind him, he trailed along a few other nondescript daughters, only having in common the colour of their hair. He did see that the girl who had answered the door earlier on was nowhere to be seen.

"Well then, _Reiner Braun_ , this here is my family. You may not know us well, but we have heard plenty of the, how could I put it, _unsavoury_ rumours surrounding you. So if you may please step to one side while we discuss some matters with our employee here, we would be very grateful."

The blond looked over his shoulder in cold panic to a confused looking Bertholdt. A little of the complete trust he had showed him earlier had slipped, he could see that in the way he had shuffled a little further away from his previously rather close position near his back. But he hadn't let go of his shirt, and shook his head jarringly when he nodded towards the Tenards. He was no good at reading people, but he would work with what he was given. He sighed.

"You can speak to him, but I will not go away. I want to make sure that nothing bad happens to him."

"You accusing me of anything, _boy_?" shouted the Tenard husband, launching forward at what he obviously though was an insult to his name, but was stopped I his tracks by an adorable bundle of colourful fabric and wide eyes.

"Daddy, please be nice to the big man! He doesn't know what he's saying, and he can't hurt Daddy, because Daddy will hurt him badder if he does! Right?" she said while looking up to him with tears near overflowing her clear as crystal eyes.

The man softened at this, and a kind smile lit his features as he petted her hair, like any father would do. He nearly looked _normal_ in that one moment, not like someone who would injure someone, then let that person go untreated.

"Fine, darling, we'll just have our little talk here. Don't worry, it'll be quick."

The little girl squealed in glee and ran over to Reiner, hugging his legs as she did so. At first uncomfortable with this, it was only as he looked down at the tiny shrimp that had his knees locked together that he caught the expression on her face. He didn't know how to read people well, but even he could see straight through her.

Pure. Fucking. Evil.

000

"Come here, Berthold."

Reluctantly, he let go of the back of Reiner's shirt, and took a couple of steps forward. He was torn really, between keeping the comfort of the person he trusted or fleeing a demon incarnate. The few commanding words broke his resolve to keep the former of the two, and he came forth to sit under the unforgiving family's eye.

"Yet again, you disappoint us, Berthold. This is the last straw. I hope you understand that the only reason we have kept your unreliable services for the last few months was out of pity for your condition," said the Tenard lady, her eyes looking him up and down like some muddy dog. "I think that everybody here agrees that for the sake of the well-being of our business, you must leave immediately. Of course, you will have to pay for the damages of your staying here, which includes the soiling of a bale of hay, as well as a broken fence, and a stolen cow."

He could see Reiner shivering from out of the corner of his eye, with what must have been either disgust or some other form of anger directed towards him. But he knew that the cow incident wasn't his fault, right? His trust had been shaken by what had been said earlier, but turning to him, he was surprised to see that the clenched fist and steely anger was directed at the gaggle of Tenards standing in the doorway. A little courage, the thought that at least one person in this world had his back, was instilled I him, and he turned back to answer the unfair accusations that had just been stated against him.

"I… habe die cow. And… I…"

"Boy, you aren't getting out of this that easily. We know the nature of your people, you've sold the animal already, and are just trying to swindle us into letting you get away with it!"

"But it's true! We tied her up in the field. Come and have a look if you don't believe him."

The two adult Tenards looked at each other, and the husband finally relented and stepped down from the small platform that was the staircase that led to the kitchen area.

"All right, let's see the beast."

"I'm coming too!" said the little Azalea, as she skipped along in front of Reiner's legs, nearly tripping him several times. Claire Tenard sniffed, then followed behind them, slamming the door in the face of the two remaining daughters as she did.

Bertholdt swallowed nervously on the way to the field. He knew that he would not get out of this situation scott-free, even with the help of Reiner. He felt a weight on his shoulder, and looked around to see that it was the person whom he had been thinking of. He noticed that he was still in his shirt-sleeves, and that the large leather coat that he had so despised the first time he had stumbled across him was still drawn tightly across his shoulders. He pulled it off, and handed it back to him with a grateful smile. He tried to push it back in his direction when it was handed his ways, but with a frown Bertholdt insisted. He didn't want any extra thoughts of being a burden pulling yet another person down with him, even if it was out of genuine kindness that he was offering him the piece of clothing. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he got ill.

The blond grudgingly too it back, but not without giving him a meaningful nod towards his own not very warm coat. He couldn't care less. It was nearly midday, and nowhere as cold as it had been this morning.

They were both relieved to see that Rose had not pulled a runner on them, and was grazing quietly where she had been left. Once they all got close enough to the fence to see the details in the cow's coat, Dennis Tenard lent over the wooden pickets to see what he could of the animal.

He wasn't by nature the cruellest of men, and would have happily let Bertholdt off with only the blood-soaked hay (and the fence he didn't have the courage to say that he hadn't had a hand in breaking), but unfortunately, he wasn't the keenest of farmers, preferring to leave all such chores to those that he saw as under his authority. In consequence, he didn't know his animals well enough to distinguish them. He would never admit so, though.

"Yes, well, she seems to be perfectly fine…"

Bertholdt breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that he had at least got out of this situation without having to pay for the animal that was worth several years of wages working under these famers. He had forgotten one very important factor though. A small, blue-eyed, golden-haired factor.

"But Daddy! This is not Rose! Rose has a prettier face and a heart shape on her side!"

Reiner, whose legs had yet again been encircled by the little girl's arms, had piped up in a clear, sweet voice. She locked eyes with the farm-hand briefly, who stumbled back at the unaltered hatred that she shot him through that one stare.

"You're right, honey, I think I remember having a cow like that," added Claire Tenard, a grin that was slightly mischievous flickering on her lips.

It felt like the ice bucket of harsh reality of this world had just been emptied on his head, the last bit of spluttering fight he had against this injustice being forced out of him.

"Das IST Rose!" he shouted, more loudly than intended, then added in a quieter tone "It… run off. Not steal," he said, pointing to his chest. His breathing was now halting and he had problems keeping the tears from spilling.

"You do have the NERVE," started the Tenard husband, his voice being raised to the volume of a thundering train, "to go against the word of my daughter and wife? Do you really think that I would take the word of a good-for-nothing JEW over that of my own family? Take your mangy animal and your friend the Jerry, get off my property, and don't ever come back again!"

These last words were shouted at an octave higher than the man's usual voice tone, and were followed by a heavy silence that only Bertholdt's stuttering breathing interrupted. He was petrified, terrified, at the end of his tether, and could no longer process his thoughts correctly. It was over. He was done.

His wrist was grabbed and he was pulled forward with such force that it felt like his arm was being torn from its socket. They stopped at the fence, just long enough for him to hear some cursing from somebody trying to undo a tough knot, then yet again yanked forth with way more strength than was necessary. Everything was a blur. He couldn't focus on much apart for the fact that he might as well just let this person do whatever they wanted with him. He couldn't care less.

He collided with a familiarly hard body as this one stopped abruptly in his tracks. He exchanged a few words with somebody, and they once again set off, but at a slower pace so that Bertholdt was now actually using his legs rather than being dragged along. Little by little, he came around, finding that he was now moving along the forest path, Reiner holding his wrist in one hand and pulling the cow along with the other. He had his back to him, his expression (and more importantly, his eyes) unreadable to him. He didn't know whether he really wanted to see his face though. He was afraid of what he would discover there.

As usual, he had been nothing more than a useless weight to others, and had been incapable of standing up for himself. A leech, feeding off the time and patience of good-hearted people. As he had always been.

They had been walking for some time, following the way back to the town, Bertholdt realised when he recognised a few familiar fallen branches littering the path. He let himself be led. With a bit of luck, he would bring him to Marco's and leave him there. He could do with a warm drink.

Reiner turned to him, and Bertholdt was shocked into stopping dead in his tracks a he saw that he held a smile on his face. It wasn't very strong, but despite the wobble there wasn't an ounce of doubt in it. Instantly, he found himself grateful, but not in a guilty way. He had known what he was walking into from the start, of course he did, nobody was dumb enough to misinterpret the marks that crisscrossed his back.

So, he decided that even though his secret was out in the open, despite the months of pain and the more recent suffering, despite all the things that still remained unsaid between them, he would follow this person. Even if it was just to repay the kindness which had been given to him.


	7. Chapter 7:Money brings Mystery

Chapter 7: Money brings Mystery

 **This chapter contains mentions of anti-semitism, mentions of discrimination, a homebound character, religious practices (Protestant, Church of England) and a mention of mislabelling. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

Stepping out of the shadows cast by the overhanging trees, the sunlight brought on a nice amount of warmth. Reiner hadn't let go of his wrist since they had left the farm, but surprisingly, the contact wasn't that uncomfortable, even though it was restraining. In the other, he held the rope that led the cow, pulling slightly whenever the animal tried to stop to graze the still dewy grass that lined the path. Slowly, as they got closer and closer to the town, he let go of Bertholdt, almost reluctantly, not wanting to break away from him too suddenly. Or that was what he assumed, anyway. He would shoot him glances from time to time with that watery smile that he tried to keep on his face despite the fact that he obviously had trouble doing so.

 _"_ _Do you think you should sell the cow immediately? I mean,"_ he added quickly, obviously slightly panicked at what his forwardness would entail _"you could make sure to have at least a little cash to live off while you're looking for another job. Erm, and I think that you could probably stay with Annie for a little longer, or maybe even Marco, but his place is really cramped, but he'll find a space for you, I'm certain of it…"_

Bertholdt could see that the person he now considered as the closest thing he had to a friend in this place was floundering and falling over his own words, and he did want to stop him, tell him that he'll be all right, find a way out of this by his own means, but he simply couldn't. He still felt too drained by what had just happened, and therefore couldn't stop himself from falling into a steep-sided pit of verbal confusion.

 _"_ _I need to pay for the doctor anyway… No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"_ he tried to rectify when he took consciousness of what he had just said, but Reiner caught up with him before he could get another word in.

 _"_ _No, don't even try. If anyone's paying Hange, it's me. By the way, I'm assuming that if you are to sell that cow, you're selling her to Marco. He's the one who'll give you the best deal for her."_

Incapable of saying anything more with the mental exhaustion setting in a little deeper, he nodded mutely, letting himself be led, as he usually did when he had the choice, down the hill towards the messy back-yard.

The place was not as he had seen it the other day; some of the larger things having been moved, some having disappeared, and others having taken their place. It was slightly unnerving, and at first he thought that they weren't in the right place, but as they approached, a freckled face peeped through the grimy glass of one of the upstairs windows, and when they finally got to the gate, the figure of the tall, smiling man emerged through the back door.

"Hey there! You shouldn't sneak up on me like that, I might shoot you thinking you're the home guard or something!" He shouted out jollily, to the incomprehension of the two people coming up to greet him.

"Nice to see you too, Marco," Reiner said sedately, as he took the other person's calloused hand in his own and shook. Bertholdt did the same, but made sure to sneak a curious glance at the blond after that. He had straightened up slightly when he had come face to face with the cobbler, and his gaze had hardened. It wasn't anger, but rather wariness, perhaps. It was difficult to pick out. Still, it was nice to have him usher both of them into the small room he had visited once before (a few pairs of old boots had disappeared from where he had seen them the last time, and others were halfway through repairs, but most of them were still piled up messily) and to go up to the embers sitting in the stove, warming his hands over what was left of the heat radiating from them. Marco invited them to sit down, leaning comfortably against the wall himself. They did as they were told, even though despite the homely atmosphere, Reiner didn't relax and simply kept the stiff stance he had assumed earlier on.

"So, what you're back here for then? I thought you needed to bring the rebel cow back to wherever she came from, not drag her all over the place," he said, before stopping as he saw both of them look away and Bertholdt breaking out in his usual nervous sweat. "What's wrong?" he added in a softer tone, trying to catch one or the other's gaze.

Reiner shook his head, readying himself to tell the sad tale of this morning, but to his surprise Bertholdt spoke before he had time to form a sentence.

"My job…" he started, German accent out in the open for the time being as he concentrated on repressing a stutter instead, "…verloren. Erm, Reiner?"

"He lost his job," the blond explained.

"And… I can't keep cow. I… I need money. N-not cow," he managed to stammer out.

Silence ensued, before a little "Ah" was heard from where Marco was standing. He shuffled over, still unseen by avoiding eyes, until a hand sat itself on Bertholdt's shoulder. He flinched a little and his gaze flicked up to meet the cobbler's dark one. A small, sad smile pulled at his features, not unlike the one Reiner had offered him earlier on, and suddenly the hand grew more comforting than threatening.

"I'm sorry about that. I've seen how hard you work, and I think they're a real bunch of twats to throw you out like that, and managing to force a debt on you at the same time. I'll take the cow. You're lucky, you caught me while I've still actually have the cash to spend on her. I would offer you a job as well, but I don't have the akkas to pay an employee. I'm really, sincerely sorry, and can only hope the best for you in the future," he concluded, patting him twice heavily with his large hand and exiting the room (he didn't forget to sling the gun over his shoulder as he left. It could have been taken as a sign of distrust, but both his guests now knew that the man lived dangerously and had enemies). As he did so, Reiner relaxed visibly where he had been sitting and shuffled closer to the fire, closer to Bertholdt. He leaned in a little, making sure that he couldn't be heard, and asked in a hushed voice:

 _"_ _Does he know?"_

 _"_ _Everything,"_ Bertholdt answered, adding a nod for good measure. _"Both my nationality and, er…ethnicity."_

He turned his head away from the blond at this, unsure if his confirmation of what Denis Tenard had said earlier on would have an effect on whatever the blond thought of him.

 _"_ _I won't treat you differently because of that, you know,"_ he said seriously. _"My friend Armin speaks of 'open-mindedness'. It's the idea of accepting people who are different from you in certain ways, not looking down on them, and seeing them as human beings, as what they are: people."_

 _"_ _I'm sorry,"_ said Bertholdt after a short, reflective silence. _"It's still a dangerous, or at least a difficult label to live under in this time. With the number of occasions I could have been killed if I had taken my own coat instead of the spare one,"_ he said, tracing the star pattern on the left side of his chest, _"and the number of jobs I've been denied after I landed in this country, I think you can understand why I'm wary."_

 _"_ _It's still sad though,"_ Reiner sighed. _"that we can't live as who we really are. We expect a bad reaction whenever we are forced to reveal part of ourselves, even if we don't consider that part of us as something that could define us completely."_

Bertholdt finally looked up to him, brow slightly furrowed. _"You've been using 'us' and 'we' since earlier on. There are plenty of blond English people around, is there something else you're not telling me?..."_

A blush instantly lit Reiner's face in a beetroot red glare, and the next words he sputtered out in an incoherent gargle.

 _"_ _Uh n-no, of course not… Er, I, well… No!"_

 _"_ _Fine. I'll ask this 'Armin' once you introduce us then,"_ he said cheekily, but not unkindly. _"No, really, I would like to meet him. He sounds nice."_

"Hey, no languages I don't understand in my kitchen!" came Marco's booming fake angry voice in their direction, and they both snapped to attention before he let out a chuckle.

"Here, this is all I've got," he said, shoving a large handful of crumpled papers and coins in his hand. "There's some rationing tickets in there as well, you'll be needing them if you want to eat a decent meal. Sorry that I can't offer you more, but if it's money you need, I can only suggest that you find a new job as quickly as possible. Oh, and Reiner, find someone to teach him English, no offense intended but he won't be able to get far with that poor excuse for a cover."

The blond nodded mutely, keeping his eyes averted from the lad. He got up, and made to his way to the door. Bertholdt got up, and, stumbling over words of farewell and thanks, he followed the more imposing person back out through the door.

 _"_ _What was that for?"_ he hissed once they were out of earshot of the joyful brunet waving them off through the window. _"He was being really nice; can't you be a little polite?"_

"Look, I'm sorry Bertl, but I need to get back to work. I need at least this afternoon's pay to keep my mother and I afloat. And all right, I'll leave you at Armin's for the afternoon and we could talk this through in the evening, if he isn't the one to tell you in the end."

 _"_ _Hey, w-wait a minute!"_ he stuttered, trying to keep up with the powerful strides that Reiner took up the hill, _"I need to work as well. I can't stay cooped up without pulling my weight…"_

Reiner turned on him, no anger but something akin to frustration mixed with some kind of weariness stretching his features. It scared Bertholdt a little, who, unprepared, slipped back on the muddied grass and would have fallen, were it not for the hand that stretched out and caught him by the front of the jacket before he could topple over completely.

"You can't strain yourself. Please, just for today, rest up a little bit."

He turned around, not wanting the flush in his cheeks to show, and starting his brisk walk up the hill. Bertholdt stayed where he was, before following him a few feet behind, grumbling a little under his breath.

 _"_ _My name's not Bertl."_

000

"…and he'll be able to teach you how to write it as well. The only thing you have to keep in mind is that he's a real gossip, so expect to be showered in news about people you've never heard about."

They had struck up a conversation again as they got closer to the small church, Reiner still speaking English while Bertholdt replied to him in his mother tongue. The heaviness of the previous conversation had dissipated, the taller of the two going along with his instinct and following the instructions he had been given. It was so much easier to do so, to have someone to guide him and to give him objectives rather than letting him err aimlessly.

As per, he was getting nervous in meeting this little family the blond was now describing to him. The village priest, his daughter and his adoptive son all sounded like nice people, but still… The deeply ingrained fear was not one to be swept away lightly. He had given his trust to three people in the last few days, and he was afraid that if he decided to doll it out any more, the consequences would come around and stab him in the back.

"… don't get roped into playing games either, he's able to beat even Hange. Hey, you listening?"

He snapped out of his contemplation to be greeted by a now familiar concerned face. He shook his head and smiled.

"No. You boring."

Laughter of the likes he had never heard before engulfed the courtyard in great, rocking bouts, frightening the fowl nesting here and there and seemingly making the structures shake. If he were to compare it to something, it would be a braying donkey, but deeper and distinctively louder. It was irrepressible.

Incapable of stopping himself, he joined in, his more normal laughter practically unheard next to the ever-increasing volume of Reiner's, tears of glee peaking over the edges of his eyelids as he held his sides. The joke hadn't even been that funny, but they both felt that they needed it. The tension had been too heavy for too long, and once they had calmed down to the level of giggling, they felt their chests become a little lighter, as if part of their respective burdens had been eased a little.

They managed to pull themselves together and walk over to the door. Reiner raised his hand, and Bertholdt expected that he would pick up the knocker on the door, but he instead reached into one of the deep pockets of his huge coat. He pulled out an object which at first glance the taller boy didn't recognise, but soon his eyes widened in comprehension and he looked back into the blond's blue ones.

 _"_ _But… I left it at the Tenard's!"_

He raised a finger to his lips and took his hand to press the metal and plastic torch in them.

"The girl who met us at the door gave it to me as we were leaving. I don't think that she's as bad as the rest of the bunch."

Bertholdt swallowed, thinking back to the event. It had been Cherished, he was certain of it. It was true that she had never been openly cruel to him, but still… she was a Tenard. If ever he crossed her path again, he'll make sure to thank her, but nothing more. He just wanted to pay his debt and wash his hands of them as soon as possible.

"Thank you."

Reiner smiled. "It's nothing. And that's good, you used English."

The door was answered after only two knocks on Reiner's part. They were met with an older man wearing half of what were clearly clerical robes, the other half maybe a pair of what could possibly be described as vaguely resembling a pair of night-time trouser-wear. No, on closer inspection, he definitely was wearing pyjama bottoms. It didn't seem to affect his aura in the slightest though, the shorter man radiating good will and a certain power that convinced Bertholdt that angering him wouldn't be the best of ideas.

"Ah, Reiner! How are you, my son?" he said, breaking into a wide smile beneath his moustache.

"I'm fine Father."

"How about your mother then? Is she any better?"

"She hasn't progressed at all, I'm sorry to say," he sighed out wearily. "This is Bertholdt. He's been thrown out from where he's been living and he's wounded. I was wondering whether you could at least make sure that he stays warm and doesn't try to over exert himself while I'm at work this afternoon."

A frown had formed on the man's face as he was told the short version of the former cow-herd's story, but then brightened at the favour being asked of him.

"Yes, of course! Doctor Hange will come over later on to take a look at Armin, maybe they could examine this young man while they're at it as well." He turned back to Bertholdt to address him directly, maybe even a little sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself properly yet: I'm Father Dominican White, and I take care of the spiritual well-being of the people of this town. I'm sincerely sorry for your loss, and hope that we will at least be able to make you feel comfortable enough for the time being. Now, please, come in! Reiner, are you sure you don't want something before you go off again?"

"No, I'm fine," he insisted. "Just make sure this lad rests up and heals quickly. He can't work for now, and he needs to get back on track as soon as possible."

"All right, then. Don't go over the top either!" he replied, waving him off. He beckoned the slightly shivering Bertholdt into the warm hallway, and pushed the front door shut effortlessly with his shoulder. "Well, that's that, then. Tell me Bertholdt, I'm sorry for being nosy, but how did you get in such a mess?"

His sweat broke yet again at this, and he looked around nervously. Reiner had not told this person that he was German, and he had no idea how he would react to his accent that he knew he couldn't keep concealed for the whole afternoon. Hoping that the man would be understanding, he thought through the words that would best describe his situation, but they fled his psyche immediately as he was suddenly blasted with a heat that could only be described as an inferno.

He pulled his jacket off immediately, but to his dismay his shirt had already stuck to his back in a great dark grey streak. The bandages underneath were all too visible, but the priest's attention fortunately wasn't on him, and he was instead addressing the corn-cob blond sitting on the mattress in a corner of the overheated room.

"Armin, how many times have I told you to not turn the heat up to maximum? It's very uncomfortable."

The boy looked up from the book he had been engrossed in, cornflower eyes flashing brightly with intelligence. And a pout.

"But it gets cold."

"No it doesn't. And you can always throw an extra layer on if it bothers you so much."

His frown not leaving his face, he faced the stove and turned the knob that controlled the amount of air being let into the metal monster. He bookmarked his page in the thin leather-bound volume he had been reading and got up to greet their newest guest.

"Hello, my name's Armin Arlert," he said, offering him a hand to shake. After making sure that he had wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers, Bertholdt took the tiny thing in his own.

"Bertholdt, Bertholdt Fubar," he replied before deciding to drop the act and let them in on everything straight away. "I… not speak English well. German."

He saw the two people exchange a look before turning back to him, one with a wide, forced smile on his face, the other with a genuine one that lit up his eyes. "You're the one who saved Reiner the other day! Thank you so much, you can't imagine how much that means to me!" he said in a single, babbling line bringing up his second hand to hold the one he had been shaking in a tight grip. Tears glazed his eyes over, but they didn't fall.

Bertholdt smiled at him and let him go on and explain what had happened that one night to his adoptive father. As he listened to the story, his expression relaxed and he looked at him with some consideration and pride, even.

"Well, you are quite the saviour, young man. I hope our Lord has taken in account such a good action on your part and will grant you better luck for the future."

"It's… not much," he choked out, staring at his feet, making invisible patterns in the invisible dust again. He preferred to stay unnoticed, anonymous. It was a little unnerving to have everyone's attention thanks to a single action which had seemed at the time so spontaneous.

"Armin, I thought that you might like to know that Eren and Mikasa will be taking their leave for two days soon," started Father White, catching the unease that was rolling off him (or maybe just the smell of sweat) and redirecting the conversation, "and they'll be over for your birthday."

"Yes!" came the blonds joyous exclamation at this, "Bertholdt, you should meet then! They're really fun and nice and interesting. They're soldiers, and…"

He stopped for breath, and Father White took this opportunity to clear things up for Bertholdt and settle some others himself, "They are Armin's childhood friends. I'm sorry, Bertholdt, but I have to ask you whether you understand English well enough, seeing as you said that you have problems speaking it."

He shook his head at the man. "I understand. Just don't speak well."

"All right. I needed to make sure that you could keep up with Armin's conversations, they're always a little… intense."

"… and that's how she got accepted into the army even though she's a girl! Incredible, isn't it?" the blond finished, blissfully unaware that they hadn't listened to a word of his story. They both nodded in his direction with interested smiles on their faces, and he beamed back at them.

"Armin, I have to go into town. Take care of our guest, and don't touch that stove!" he added in a false threatening tone, which got a sedate "Yes, Father" in response.

The door clicked closed, and Bertholdt was under the impression that the heat thus trapped made the already unbearable temperature just a notch higher. The shirt now stuck to him everywhere, and he dared not look the small blond in the eye, for fear of being pinned under his huge, blue orbs. He was more or less certain that the silence that had ensued the departure of the kind bald man could mean nothing good for him, despite the fact that the smile he had been given earlier on had seemed so… genuine.

"Hey, do you play cards?" came the eager voice from the mattress below he had returned to. The former cow-herd looked down his aquiline nose at the blindingly blond hair, which, despite the reassurances that Reiner had offered to him, scared him a little. It reminded him of other pretty blonds. Like Azalea.

"Er… No?" he said, wincing in the wake of his own dubious tone. Armin only brightened further, and chuckled lightly into his hand.

"That's alright. I can see that Reiner has already warned you. Would you like to help me…"

Bertholdt caught a hint of movement from the corner of his eye and was immediately on his feet, retreating closer to where the mattress lay, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"Armin, why didn't you stop daddy from… oh! I'm sorry!" said the angel which had just fallen from heaven and walked through the kitchen door. She looked a lot like Armin, but she was overall a little shorter, and possessed a golden aura that exuded kindness and charm of a kind he had never seen before. The white stole-like dress only increased the air of godliness that surrounded her, wings seemingly sprouting from her back as her bare feet padded across the flagstones.

"My name's Christa, I'm Father White's daughter. Glad to meet you!" she added softly, offering Bertholdt a tiny hand to shake. He hesitated, intimidated, but shook it nonetheless with a strained smile. This was getting a little unnerving. He hadn't been given the chance to speak so much in a long time, if it were not to various farm animals, and these last few days he had met more new people than he dared to remember. He thought back to Father White's last words, and paled. Doctor Hange, the person who had treated him, was going to come around later on. And from what he had heard, they were not a person that should be dealt with lightly. This was going to be a nightmare.

"Are you all right?" came Christa's kind voice, "you're as pale as a sheet and all sweaty."

Bertholdt quickly snapped out of it, trying to disguise his awkwardness behind an even more awkward grin, which he belatedly realised probably made him look like an idiot. A _lovestruck_ idiot, if he was unlucky and the girl's thoughts drifted that way.

"I… s-sorry," he spluttered, and let go of her hand after a few too long seconds. Armin, bless him, swooped in and focused her attention back on himself.

"What were you saying about Father?" he asked without missing a beat.

The small frown that crinkled her brow was an obvious sign of disapproval, yet the slight annoyed tone of her voice did nothing to alter her aura of kindness, so came off more concerned than it was probably meant to. It didn't matter, though. Bertholdt felt that nothing could be refused to that face.

"You let daddy go out in his pyjama bottoms again! I had to stop him before he walked out like that. And I had to confiscate his hip flask as well," she added in a lower voice, that maybe she wanted to shield from Bertholdt's ears, but that he caught nonetheless. This detail piqued his interest somewhat: he hadn't ever been around many people of authority of other faiths than his own, but he did know that certain rules and dogmas were usually respected, abstinence being one of them.

Armin glanced up and saw Bertholdt's thoughtful face. "Father is a little… well, eccentric."

"But he's a great man!"

"I never denied that fact," he added, smiling a little. "But he is himself as well. I admire that."

Christa gave a satisfied nod, turning to Bertholdt for his opinion. "Is. He is," he stumbled, looking to Armin for help.

"Bertholdt doesn't speak English very well," he said quickly, "but we could maybe teach him to! What do you think of that, Christa?"

"Of course, maybe we could start off with simple things like things around the kitchen, if he could help us set the table."

And that was how the next few hours flew by in a swirl of joyous eating and chatter, despite the looming threat of the doctor's arrival. They had only just finished washing up, and Christa was busy tutoring Bertholdt on the proper use of verbs, when Armin got up to answer an irritated rapping at the door. Yet, it was only when the noise turned into the much more tangible presence of a very dishevelled, very _angry_ looking lady, that Bertholdt became aware of the full meaning of Reiner's fearful description of the practician.

And he hadn't been exaggerating.

Anglicised names in this chapter:

Father Dominican White: Dot Pixis


	8. Chapter 8: The Red Cross doesn't bring

Chapter 8: The Red Cross doesn't bring much

 **This chapter contains mentions of a beating and fever, mentions of actual historical events, mentions of wartime terror, mentions of murder, mentions of genocide, a character using the "they/them" pronouns, a character discrediting a well-meaning association, and a character mislabelling another. Oh yes, and Hange generally acting bananas. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

Before, Bertholdt would have never thought that someone who held such an unkempt appearance could hold so much authority. Hair held back in a messy ponytail, clothes that probably used to be good quality covered in questionable stains, and generally hot and sweaty (although the number of human beings capable of _not_ being so seemed to be limited to a goddess and a genius), they wouldn't have impressed him more than the next person if they hadn't seemed so… well, _mad_. As soon as they let Christa take their coat and hang it on a hook next to his own, they blasted question after question at the unfortunate Armin, who seemed to be much less at ease than when they had been conversing between themselves earlier on.

He sighed, making his decision when pleading eyes locked with his own. _All right, Armin. I owe you one anyway._

He cleared his throat once, and seeing that the bespectacled doctor hadn't heard him, he tried again, louder. He nearly regretted it when they snapped straight up, deranged grin which seemed to say _I'm going to eat you_ not helping in the awkward silence which had settled. Swallowing his saliva, he looked around the kitchen, but unfortunately the only viable exit was blocked off by the threat.

"I promise that if you ever interrupt me again, you'll regret it. You won't get a third chance."

And they started up their one-sided conversation with Armin again. Once the initial shock passed, he thought back to what they had just said. _Three tries… That means I had already interrupted her once before? When could have that been?_

Christa then entered the room again, her presence even making Hange quiet down a little. They exchanged greetings and a few quiet words, before the little blonde came up to him and led him out into the cooler hallway.

"It's to give them some privacy. Hange wouldn't mind, but Armin is a little insecure about how frail he is," she said, before adding: "Please don't tell him that I said that. It's just so you would know, that's all."

Bertholdt nodded in understanding. His father was ( _had been_ , his traitorous mind added. He ignored it) a doctor, after all, and he knew how some patients could be a little twitchy. After all, he was just like them: he didn't really like taking his shirt off when it got too warm in the summer, and he knew that he would be even less agreeable to that now that he would have scars to show. Still, he was getting ahead of himself. He wouldn't have to do that in a long time, it was only just the end of autumn after all. But maybe he would never have to go through that decision. Maybe he wouldn't be…

"Bertholdt? Are you all right?" questioned a concerned-sounding Christa. He had been lost in his thoughts and staring off into space, he realised. Hardly polite.

He smiled down at her. "Yes. All right."

The small crease above her nose bridge didn't budge, but at least her eyes relaxed. Bertholdt was just starting to get cold, sweat that was meant to cool him now making him shiver, when the door unexpectedly slammed open and the doctor called "Next!"

"Fine, I… I'm fine," he said half-heartedly, unwilling to set foot into the beast's den without a fight (or a meagre protest, if ever there was one), but not liking the idea of provoking said beast further than was necessary by refusing.

"Nonsense! Last time I saw you, you were on your last legs, so please give me the pleasure of not having to sedate you again in order to get a look at your wounds, and come over here this instant!"

He didn't need to be told twice. With a horrified glance in Armin's direction, he entered the still-sweltering kitchen. Hange was sitting in a chair, looking through their huge black bag. A bundle of bandages were already laid on the table, as well as several other bottles of solutions that Bertholdt recognised easily.

 _That's disinfectant, and another, and is that..?_

It was scary, because this was a person he didn't know, but the familiarity of it all was homely, in a strange way. His doubts came back again though, when he saw a very weary, very tired expression flit across the doctor's face for a second, before they regained a more business-like countenance. It wasn't uncommon for a medical practician to be overworked, but if his father was anyone to go by, like any other human being, they were far less patient and likely to snap at any given moment.

"Sit down and answer all my questions with a 'yes' or 'no'," they said, pulling out a clipboard and already scribbling something down on it. They then looked up at him, and in a way that contrasted violently with their earlier brusqueness, they said: "I'll also need some information on how you got these wounds in the first place."

Bertholdt shook his head. He did not want yet another person in on this. After all, it was something that he had to sort out himself, because he was the one who had landed himself in this situation in the first place.

They leaned in a little closer, too close, he judged, when a stray lock of their hair met his skin. From this angle, he could see the heavy bags under their eyes that were covered by the frames of their glasses, yet they were still as piercing and feral as they had been before. But maybe in a more dangerous way. And… were their eyebrows burned off?

"Today, I received a letter from the Red Cross," they breathed, and the sentence was so unexpected that he froze and didn't even try to inch away from them. "It was a refusal to use my design as a new symbol for their association. Said it didn't meet their standards. But I put so much thought into it!" they exclaimed, throwing their hands up into the air, and this time, Bertholdt did jump out of his chair.

"Sit down, please, I haven't finished," they said breathlessly. Bertholdt was now more or less certain that this person wasn't supposed to be roaming the streets. "Imagine a knightly blazon, like the one of King Arthur," they said, gesturing with their arm in an all-encompassing motion, "but not expressing the want for some saint relic. No. One which promises peace, one which, when seen approaching by people in need, is greeted with open arms."

They stopped for a moment, having seemingly finished their talk, but they yet again leaned in close to him, and this time, he could even see the little veins that zigzagged across their sclera.

"One which helps even those who are abandoned by everyone else."

His breath hitched. It had been said so deliberately that there was no room for doubt. They were now sitting back down in their chair as a normal person would, concentrating on cutting lengths of bandages.

"Did you know," they started again, and he tensed. "That there was a police raid in Paris. It was in July, and done by order of the Vichy regime. Obviously, not a single German soldier was present at the time, but that's beside the point."

"All these people, men, women, children, were held in a single place, the _Vélodrome d'Hiver_ ," she said, their French grating at his ears. "This place was not equipped to hold so many people, or not for so long, anyhow. The bathrooms were in a state, and people were not getting enough food and water. The Red Cross had set up a medical tent, but they were quickly overrun and couldn't deal with them all."

"The thing is, Bertholdt, that I don't see what these people did to deserve such treatment. _Children_ , for goodness's sake. Not only that, but how could people do that to others and expect to be considered as human? What I don't understand, is why the Red Cross didn't do what any person would do, and smuggle some of them out? They had the possibility, Bertholdt, I can promise you that. But I can also promise you one other thing: they didn't do it. Why? Because the Red Cross is not what this world needs. It needs warriors, Bertholdt, it needs people ready to fight for the rights of others, it needs daring people with a sense of justice, it needs…"

Bertholdt stopped her with an open palm. Their speech had at first angered him, the way they spoke so lightly about a tragedy he didn't know of until then holding all his attention and sorrow. As they had continued talking, however, he had redirected that anger -which, as usual in his case, quickly died down under the weight of his own apathy anyway- to the organisation they had so seamlessly incorporated into the conversation. They might have gone a little off subject in the process, but he understood the general meaning behind their words; he actually found them promising, if not revolutionary. This person was obviously a genius, not in a way he had ever thought was possible, but he was ready to accept that. They were wild, but they were wise; not the kind of person anyone would mess with. And maybe, just maybe, even if it was only thanks to their job, they saw a little bit of his father in them. This was the decisive factor that allowed him to act as insanely as he did then, to confide for the first time a few of the most recent events of his life in someone.

"Now… I tell you me. My story."

And he did. Nothing from before, nothing that didn't happen on English soil, but enough so that they knew how he had gotten the cuts in the first place, and enough so that all the other, minor ones were explained as well. They didn't write anything down, just listened, sometimes making him repeat some sentences that didn't make sense.

It was by far the longest conversation he had ever had in English, but it wasn't too difficult, surprisingly. He was honest as well, something he had not been in a very long time.

"Hmm… you've been through a lot. What those people did was undoubtedly illegal in all kinds of different ways, but you're right, they'll get away with it. That kid will probably try and turn it against you as well, if she's as bad as you say she is. I can only wish you good luck for finding a job; you're probably on the same level of employability as Reiner, and that is _not_ good, I can assure you."

There it was again, the hint that there was something not being said. "Why?"

"What, why?"

"Why Reiner has no job?"

"He's asthmatic; that never helps."

Frustrated, he motioned with his hand. "No. Something else."

They seemed to think for a second, looking him over once or twice, before answering him.

"He'll tell you when he thinks the time is right. Right now, we've got other tasks at hand. Take your shirt off, and answer my questions honestly."

So he did. The piece of fabric was dark grey with sweat, and it made the doctor stop immediately and look him up and down again, a little like before, but more in incomprehension rather than consideration.

"Bertholdt, when's the last time you bathed?"

He thought it through for a few seconds, but was interrupted when a hand grabbed his wrist and he was pulled harshly towards the door. "It's not a good sign if you have to think for that long about it."

They crashed through the door, interrupting the blondes' conversation and making both of them jump. "Christa, show me how to run a bath, I don't know if the plumbing here is as bad as where I live. Armin, get some extra clothes, use the curtains if you must, just go!"

Both of them shot up and ran to their respective tasks, unable, like most, to not obey the doctor's commanding voice. Bertholdt was dragged into a room where a claw foot bath was soon steaming, and a pile of linen sat waiting on a chair. The doctor left him, and thinking that maybe they was giving him some privacy, he began to undress.

To tell the truth, it had indeed been quite some time since he had last really cleaned up. He would sometimes get someone in the kitchens to hand him a bucketful of lukewarm water to sponge off with, but this wasn't the same thing. He was literally salivating, as if being presented with a delicious meal, at the sight of the warm bathtub. Just at the wrong moment, when his trousers were around his ankles, Hange slammed the door open in what he assumed was their usual manner of getting from one room to another and he yelped, tripped forward and squawked a number of meaningless words that had absolutely no effect on the doctor. They simply stepped into the room, threw their bag down on the nearest available flat surface and closed me the door behind themself.

"Stop moaning! I'm a doctor, for goodness's sake, do you think that I've never seen a naked man before? I need to make sure you don't scratch your scabs off or something stupid like that."

"Won't!" Bertholdt argued. He definitely didn't want this person in the same room as him when he was so defenceless, and definitely not anywhere near the marks on his back. He had humoured them long enough earlier on, and even offered up part of himself to them in exchange. But this went too far; he refused to be locked in a room with a potential maniac and take his eyes off them for a second. He had to revise his judgement though when they charged him like a bull and stood as tall and close as their smaller form would let them, furious, fogged glasses staring up at him.

"I've done nothing but try and help people my whole life, so don't you _dare_ question my good intentions," they threatened. "You need medical help, and I'll _force_ it down your neck if you refuse to be treated, I can assure you. I'll _hunt you down_ and _make sure you're unhurt_ if I have to. Now quit looking at me like I'm some flippin' moustached Austrian and get in that tub _this instant._ "

That settled it clearly enough. Now trembling like a leaf in the steam-filled air, he quickly complied and submerged as far as he could into the blissful water. Even though he had to bend his legs and a good portion of them were left above the surface, he relaxed into the warmth as in a soft mattress. It can only be left to the imagination to one never having gone for long without cleaning how good it could feel. He soaked for a few minutes, left to his own devices as Doctor Hange stood guard. They did let a few words come after a while though, just as the water was beginning to get cool.

"You're taking another one. That water's more mud than anything else: there's no way that you've gotten much cleaner than before from that."

So he pulled himself out, making sure to grab the closest towel to wrap around his waist, even though for now the doctor hadn't made any moves towards him for an examination. They even turned their back respectfully when he clambered out onto the very cold floor, shivering partly from the temperature difference, partly from the many thoughts of whatever this person could do to him in the vulnerable state he was now in.

They beckoned him back into the water, which he gratefully did, letting a "Thank you, Ma'am" slip when they caught him when he slid on the bath's edge and nearly fell. They instantly stiffened, their grip on his arm tightening, and he wondered what he had done, a small worried thought striking through him, more out of habit than anything else, wondering how he would be punished for whatever he had done wrong. He shook his head, sinking back into the land of finger-pruning bliss. He wasn't with the Tenards anymore. He just had to pay his debt, and he would be free of their influence. It was something abstract, and to tell the truth, terrifying to think about. Freedom. Something that he didn't exactly appreciate. It was like he had the immensity of the Universe, the world's power, at his fingertips. Something too imposing for him. He liked to be guided, to have his horizon restrained somewhat. He hoped the people he had met would help him do so, rather than shrugging it off and offering the much-dreaded "do whatever you want".

He glanced from where the water lapped his bare legs to look at Hange. They had seemed uncharacteristically unsettled, and he was slightly apprehensive when he saw that they had been staring at him.

They broke it off, sighed, took their glasses off to wipe the fog from them. For the first time, now that he saw them without the accessory, Bertholdt thought that maybe he had made some mistake. Maybe not a bad one, but one which would maybe hurt the person sitting on the blue-painted trunk in the corner of the room.

"Bertholdt, erm, you know…"

They coughed into her fist, a little ashen in the cheeks.

"Shit, it's always difficult. Alright, just, you know, don't be surprised or anything, but I'm not a woman." They looked up suddenly, seeing the confusion and shock on Bertholdt's face, his mouth hanging open in wait for the words to come. "And not a man either," they added quickly, before he could find the right words to ask the question hanging there.

"So..?" he asked hesitantly nonetheless. The concept sounded alien to him, in a world he had thought could only house male and female individuals. Yet again, he thought back: many years ago, when he was still very young, his father had quickly mentioned the subject in a conversation he had overheard. All he could drag up from the memory dredges he had was a pitying and condescending tone, no information that would likely help him comprehend the phenomena.

"How..?" he asked just as hesitantly as earlier on, seeing a hint of a soft smile tugging at… this person's features.

"Well, I'd prefer not to describe the specifics, if you don't mind. Maybe I will, one day, but not now. Just… try and think of me as someone in between. If you need to talk about me, use 'they' instead of 'her', and otherwise, just call me doctor Hange. I work well with that."

He looked at them for an instant, and even through the haze of the bathroom steam, he could see something so shockingly familiar in their eyes that he nearly balked. He saw himself. He saw himself in his moments of self-doubt, in those moments when he had to reveal anything that he thought other people could judge him by. He had often told people he understood them, but he didn't think he had ever done so as sincerely than in this instant. Hange was certainly different from him in oh so many ways, with their extrovert nature and completely off the wall and variable attitude, but they did have this one, well-used fear of being rejected for being themselves.

"All right, Doctor," he offered tentatively in his accent-muddied English, but encrusted with an openness unlike him. "Ich…I can… verstehe."

Their smile became more pronounced, something that suited them, along with the glasses now firmly seated back on the bridge of their nose. "Understand," they corrected, before offering another towel to wrap himself in.

"I think you're about finished now. Water looks better than before. Don't put clothes on yet, but you can keep the towel, unless you've got wounds that should be examined there as well."

"No," Bertholdt replied quickly, and followed the order with no side thoughts. The trunk where Hange had been seated earlier on looked welcoming enough, so he made his way over and sat on it. They pulled the plug in the bath, and the sound of whooshing water somehow settled his thoughts.

There was a certain amount of people in which he placed his trust, which of course he saw as a weakness, but that he desperately needed, as much for his well-being as for his sanity. He had always been a nervous wreck, and the events over the last few months had broken him beyond what could ever be repaired. But he was still there, even though he couldn't possibly see himself as the same person as the one he had grown up being. It was saddening, really.

"Done! Now turn around, I need better access to your back," came their voice, somewhat more chipper than it had seemed earlier on. He obliged, pulling the piece of furniture out a little so that he could slot his legs between the wall and the light wooden box. His nose coming face to face with a wall made him grimace slightly, reminding him of harder times, but he chased the thoughts away as soon as they invaded his head.

He felt a few prods and pokes, some of which made him flinch and hiss, although they were all relatively gentle. Cold fingers carefully applied ointment on his sores, but once they were finished, there was no expected presence of the end of a cotton bandage being shoved under his arm, nor any other dressing in fact.

"No, I saw some cuts on your torso earlier on. I'm not bandaging anything up until I get a closer look at those as well. Now turn around again."

Bertholdt did as he was told, complying with a familiarity that he thought had died the day his father probably did. He remembered, every time he came back with bruised knees or other minor childhood injuries, he would take on the well-meaning and clinical persona that seemed to be common to all those treating the wounds of other people. Over the years, he had seen most patients go limp and offer themselves up without resistance, leaving to another the responsibility of their health, scared to do any worst by treating themselves unknowingly.

Hange at that instant lightly brushed their nails over one of his own pieces of handiwork, a stitch he had had to sew himself after a particularly rough day. It had fortunately only needed two stitches, and the gash hadn't bothered him at all since he had taken them out. The doctor's brow was furrowed though, and they looked up at them with a puzzled expression.

"Did you meet a doctor before you got here, Bertholdt? I mean, recently. I'm supposing you've stayed at least a month or so in England, from your accent, and assuming that you didn't learn much during your stay. Also, most of these scars are older, so I'm thinking that you only received them before you got here," they said subtly, not bringing up the long nights of running from hounds and men that had caused the slashes on his legs. "But this one… farming equipment? I've seen plenty before, and I don't see why people who would patch you up for a scratch wouldn't also do so if you were bleeding out." Not so subtle, this time, then.

He was a little confused, but was overwhelmed by the fact that yet again, Reiner had not lied when he had described them as observant. "Why… you know?" he asked, unsure of if the sentence conveyed the question he wanted.

"Oh, well, a few weeks ago the borders on the other side of the channel have been more or less completely cut off, so you would have come over before then. Also, your hair looks lighter on the left side of your head, which can only mean that…"

"No," he cut them off, before they got too carried away in their explanations. "Why you want… know."

They had started wrapping his torso, and didn't glance up as they worked. "Well, it turns out I'm overworked. Too many people, the distances are too long, and the first nurse for miles around is in Wellington. And she's old. Please, tell me where I can find this person. All the people with medical knowledge have been snapped up by the army here, and I'm the only one left dealing with all the grumpy veterans and such."

They straightened up, and he saw the glint in their eye that signalled an incoming comment that would either make no sense to him, or would give him yet another reason to doubt Hange's very approximative sanity. He wasn't disappointed.

"I can't zap rats anymore, Bertholdt, I spend my nights doing that, I'm not a bat, I need my Sundays," they said, shaking his shoulders in a way that made him feel slightly queasy. Yet again, the red making their eyes bloodshot jumped out at him, and he had the same feeling of fear earlier on, the one related to irritated people of the medical spheres.

"I don't cook anymore, I my house is a mess, and not even an organised mess, an _actual_ mess, and…"

"I did," he interrupted, trying to wedge in a word, a sentence, anything to calm them down. He was getting scared for both their and his own well-being at this stage. He regretted it instantly though, as they looked at him with mouth wide open and dumbfound eyes.

 _Crap._

 _They're going to eat me._

"Y…you did?" they whispered nearly inaudibly, in a way that spelled out doom to him.

He nodded nonetheless.

"And… do you know how to do anything else?.. Like, injections?"

He nodded again.

"Wow, um, yes, please, look, urg…"

"No."

"Why?"

"Ich… I can't."

"Look, I can teach you if you wish, you already have the basics, so…"

"I… can't."

He couldn't let himself be swayed. He couldn't live off their back.

"I'll give you a room! Pay off your debts! Give you a decent salary! Name it! I. JUST. NEED. SLEEP!"

He jumped away from them when they shouted the last few words, but it wasn't him that was targeted. He turned back to face them, and saw the doctor pulling at their hair hard enough to damage the roots. They had tears brimming over their eyes, but they didn't spill.

"All I wanted was for people around me to be healthy, happy. I don't care if they're all a bunch of whiny suicidal _brats_ , I just don't want them to suffer. But I can't do this anymore. I can't leave them without a person to patch them up after they've had a playground fight. Please. I need help."

The whispered monologue touched him deeper than any of the other words that the doctor had said; even the ones where they mentioned his people and the similarities they had hadn't quite moved him this much. There weren't any doubts to be had anymore.

He set a hand on their shoulder, tossing all cautions to the wind, all doubts he had over his capacities, and said the words which would put an end to the torment he had dealt with for far too long:

"I'll do it."


	9. Chapter 9: Work puts a Hat on the Bed

Chapter 9: Work puts a Hat on the Bed

 **Edit:** **fixed formatting**

 **This chapter contains discrimination, mentions of asthma, mentions of agoraphobia, and mentions of wartime terror and paranoia. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.**

Of course, having been unable to use the curtains as they had been asked to, Christa managed to work a compromise by offering a set of clothes that was too small, then quickly washing and drying Bertholdt's own ones by the blazing fire. As promised, this didn't take too long, the fabric not even needing minutes next to the preposterous source of heat to turn as dry as a bone.

He thanked her, retreating to the bathroom yet again for some privacy to pull them on, before coming back into the kitchen with fluffed up hair and a giddy smile that he had not been able to take off his face since earlier on.

The fact that he had a job now, a place to live, and most of all, that he had found it _practically on his own_ , was a thing that he could not quite fully comprehend, but which filled him with a feeling that chased away the ghosts of the past and helped him back to his feet in a way that he had never quite experienced before.

Of course, he still felt a certain dread, with his new responsibilities over his head and all, but he knew deep down that he could tackle them. It was just a matter of time, and if ever he was indeed useless to Hange, he was certain that they would at least have the decency to find him work better suited for him.

For now though, he basked in the joys that had befallen him after so much pain and misery. He exchanged a few words with Armin, while Christa looked at him curiously and remained silent throughout their happy exchange.

"Hange… they so kind."

Armin smiled at him, eyes creased at the corners in happiness for his previously friend-of-a-friend. "Indeed they are. They aren't like that to everyone though, they can get rather unpredictable from time to time, even with people who are a careful of them as I."

"Hey, I heard that!" shouted the person in question from where they were repacking their bag. "Can't say that you're _not_ a pain either, kicking people's arses in chess and making sure that everyone for miles around knows about it. I'm sorry, but since that day that you wouldn't let me suffer in silence after you defeated me after that four-hour-long match, you should have known that I was never going to let you off easy ever again. Be it on or off the board."

"Yep, you might want to be careful of that as well, they hold grudges."

"Why, you…!"

They continued on their playful banter for a while, but when it was finally made clear that the doctor had finished shoving everything into their oversized hand-luggage, Bertholdt wasn't sure what to do anymore. Was he going to be allowed to stay here for the rest of the afternoon, until Reiner made his way back, or was he to leave straight away, following and helping the mad doctor out wherever they could come in handy?

"Oh, you're coming with me, of course," they answered when they saw his pleading expression. "I've hired you, haven't I not? I need to make sure you don't lounge about doing nothing, that's definitely _not_ what I want. Ready to take care of the grumpiest old veteran you'll ever meet?"

Bertholdt swallowed, hard. This wasn't going to be a piece of cake.

000

Strangely enough, on the other side of town, Reiner was having some rather similar thoughts surrounding the concept of work.

The blond was standing in front of one of the pubs, the place currently teeming with farmers, workers, and an otherwise heteroclite mass of people crowding the place for a cider and maybe a warm meal, if they had the tickets.

He, of course, did not. He had instead been ordered to roll in the various barrels and carry the crates of food that were to be cooked up and served in the kitchens, and the place being very small, very old, and having a single, tiny back door that wouldn't budge in winter, it was by far easier to bring the stuff in through the front door. Everyone that ate there on a regular basis were used to it. The wooden crates being brought in were as common a sight as the large matron of a wife who served them their meals and her husband who gave out drinks from behind the bar.

But that was not why he felt apprehensive about the whole thing. He was used to working for these people: they were unfair, but they needed manpower. No, what had him shivering under his thick leather coat were the two figures he had seen enter the building earlier on.

One, with a laugh that made the world just a little easier to live in, was recognisable by sound only from a fair distance. The other he had to turn around to see, but he regretted it almost instantly when he caught his eyes. Eyes carrying a stare which could only be described as murderous, while his darker-haired friend carried on his story, oblivious to the current atmosphere.

It was John and Marco, of course. The latter, seeing that after a few seconds his friend did nothing to answer him, looked his way, his face quickly turning worried as he caught sight of the silent fighting that was taking place. He sent Reiner an apologetic look, catching John by the arm and pulling him away from the scene.

Now he was left alone with the memory of the encounter, and the hidden menace that had oozed from every pore of the other's body, despite the pacifying presence that Marco tried to be every time this kind of situation showed up. Reiner looked up towards the sign to the pub again, gathering his wits, and heaved a crate containing the ever-present potatoes onto his broad shoulders. His mother and himself needed the money, and if Bertl were to hang around for much longer, he would have to cover him as well. Not that he minded much, he thought dully as he entered the fetidly warm room; a few more hours wouldn't kill him, and he would help his friend out as much as he needed it, no matter the cost. He deserved it, after all.

There were even more people in this place than he had thought at first, and barely enough room between the tables for him to get past, holding the crate so high up that it nearly knocked the lights hanging from the low ceiling. With all his concentration focused on not getting tripped up by the masses of legs sticking out from under tables or slipping on the not-yet sticky patches of spilt alcohol, he made his way to the seemingly far-off bar, that was, in reality, just at the other end of the room.

He got there without incident, pushed the crate in its attributed position just behind the bar, before going back out through the same door to get the rest of the supplies. It was only on his third journey that his concentration failed him, the sea of faces that had previously all merged into the same blur now coming into sharp relief when his traitorous ears caught a comment in passing of a man standing at the bar.

"Ye hirin's just getting' worse, 'Enry, if ya got that bugger workin' fer yeh," said the man, a person Reiner could have sworn to have seen many times before in the small town, swirling his drink in the heavy glass before knocking it back, not letting his eyes drift from the blond while he was at it, making sure that the barman knew who he was talking about.

The moustached man just continued wiping a cloth around the pint glass he was holding, eyes half-lidded as he replied to his customer's query. "I'd like to see _you_ work for half-wage during lunch hours, Terry. Heck, I'd even be surprised to see you sober at this time of day."

The rest of the conversation was lost to Reiner, who had headed back out through the doors in a rush to get the last load he had to carry in. It was a barrel, and a heavy one at that. He hefted it up onto his shoulders nonetheless, being careful to position it correctly so that it wouldn't fall on some unsuspecting person's head as he passed by. But as he walked in through the swing-doors for the last time that day, he froze. The slur that had broken his concentration earlier on had been enough to snap him out of his routine, and he could now feel all the gazes that had been on him since earlier on burning into him. He could feel the heat of one that made him feel particularly unwelcome coming from the far end of the bar, a place that had been hidden from him in part by the mass of people huddled around the heavy piece of furniture.

And, as he made his way through the throng, his suspicions were confirmed. There stood both Marco, John, as well as a large group of friends, all laughing to one of their member's joke, oblivious to the fact that one of them had just gotten up from his barstool and was making his way to the place where the bar opened up onto the room. Reiner was transfixed by the venomous stare of the one who was making his way towards him, and therefore didn't see the edge of the bar until he hit it.

The sharp pang of pain to his hip wouldn't have bothered him in any other situation; he would have just sat down for a few moments and waited for it to pass. But in this case, he was carrying a heavy load, and was very slightly panicked by the approaching figure that he knew could only mean trouble.

His balance left him for a fateful second, and he lost his grip on the barrel. He could only watch helplessly as it fell sideways, heading towards the bar. Finally, with a loud bang, it landed on the polished wooden surface, sending someone's unsuspecting drink flying in a mess of glass shards and cracking the wood a little.

"BRAUN! What the HELL do you think you're doing?"

But fortunately for him, the barrel was undamaged, and the blond's only punishment was to have to pay for the broken glass and spilled drink, as well as replacing the broken piece of wood free of charge. As he tried unsuccessfully to pull the plank out for the third time, he caught some snickering in the distance, and glimpsed John briefly, laughing with his friends, all standing across from him.

He was still at it when two o'clock rolled around, and the place slowly started to clear as people got back to their various tasks. By that time, he had managed to get the spare piece of wood slotted in correctly, and was hammering it in so that it fit flush with all the other pieces. John was only just finishing his last drink on the other side of the bar, Marco and most of his other friends having left without noticing the tall blond lad across from them. Or else, they had and didn't want to mention it to John, all of them knowing of the history the two young men had had together.

He got up after a while, and resumed his previous exercise which consisted of him slaloming between now empty seats to get closer to him. Reiner didn't look up from what he was doing. He didn't want to provoke John, if possible.

The blond heard his tormentor getting closer, then the scrapping of a barstool's legs against the floor. Soon, he felt the uncomfortable presence next to him, although for now he seemed to be ignoring him, which was a relief. It was only when he put the final nail in what he could have considered being his own coffin that John cleared his throat, and although it would have sounded innocuous to anybody else listening, he still perceived it as a threat. It did serve its intended purpose though, grabbing the other's attention.

"So, still hard at it, then? You surprise me Braun. You really are determined to stay here, aren't you?"

He didn't reply, wiping a cloth over his work, trying to look busy in order to somehow ward off the unwanted attention. His boss was in the kitchens for now, surely he would quickly come over and give him permission to leave, as well as his salary?

"Suit yourself, ignore me if you wish. But you might want to hear this next piece of information, it's quite important, and I guess that you wouldn't mind accepting a favour coming from _me_."

Reiner's head snapped up, and John smirked. He might have only been teasing, but this sounded like something crucial, and even though he knew that if it was true, it would only be harmful to him, he needed to know. It could be important.

"Good dog. Anyway, never thought twice about why all that foodstuff is being brought in today, hey? Even that little blond monk up there doesn't know about this one; I thought that you may want to be privy to this information, I'm certain you'll love it."

He leaned in uncomfortably close, but Reiner didn't move away.

"There'll be another busful of evacuees coming here tomorrow. Kids that are hungry, and who will do absolutely _anything_ to fill that stomach of theirs. Even work ungodly hours for half the usual pay. Not only that, but they won't have those _stigmas_ you seem to be so attached to." He leaned back, while the full extent of the information dawned on him, and he felt himself pale.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll make sure that you get sent back to a country that'll take good _care_ of people of your kind when you've done starving here."

And he left. When Henry finally walked out to check on his employee's work, he found him standing next to the near-impeccable bar, looking at his hands with eyes fogged over and mind blank.

000

The mansion was bigger than he remembered.

Leaving him with just enough time to ask Armin to relay the reason of his absence to Reiner once he came to pick him up, Hange had snagged Bertholdt by the collar and promptly pulled him from the cosy home, nearly making him trip over his own legs and fall down the hill. He was dragged into the village, and before he could blink, a heavy wooden door slammed behind him, and without really knowing how he had gotten there, he looked around the sty of a house that this place was.

"Here," Hange said, shoving a small paper bag in his unsuspecting hands. "you're to bring this medication over to the mansion where Reiner's living and give this to Mister Erwin Smith. Here's a letter I wrote explaining your recent employment, so that you don't get kicked off the property as soon as you set foot there. And request to see him in person. Speaking through the staff or family is never a good idea, and he is always in such a bad mood that it wouldn't surprise me if they didn't give it to him in an attempt to off him. To tell the truth, it would just put him in an even worse mood if he doesn't get them, no real physical harm, but we wouldn't want that, wouldn't we? Still, I would like you to ask him whether he needs his dose strengthening or not, he'll understand what I mean."

Trying to follow the constant flow of words, Bertholdt nodded his head from time to time, panicking a little at all the information that was being thrown at him at once. Hange stopped, looking at him curiously, before letting their gaze soften and their strong character melt for an instant, just long enough to say a few reassuring words.

"It's all right, this won't be difficult and he isn't as bad as I make him out to be. You'll be fine."

Then they suddenly flew out of the room, making Bertholdt jump so badly that he nearly let the small package drop.

"And don't drop that package!" Hange shouted indistinctly from somewhere far-off inside the massive house.

Now, he found himself standing in front of the grand wooden doors, unable to work up the courage to knock on them. He had found the place easily enough, even though he had got there using the main road and not the forest path that he had considered at first, but decided not to in the end. Too much had happened there these last few days, and it would seem suspicious if someone on supposedly official business used it to sneak around the house.

While he stood there in the chill, he thought back to Hange's words, on how this was supposedly an easy task. What would they say if he came back without having done his work? Or if he didn't come back at all, in fact? No, he couldn't _not_ do this, he had accepted a life-saving opportunity; he couldn't just let such a thing pass without trying to take a grasp at it, at this promise of a roof above his head, of food in his stomach, of friends at hand's reach.

Pulling all the determination that he could muster together, he raised his hand, grasped the heavy knocker and slammed it down several times, sending loud, booming echoes through the large house.

Bertholdt waited for a few seconds, and just when he had had enough and was about to set off again, he heard a voice call tiredly through the wooden door: "Wait..! 'm coming!"

Next thing he knew, he was face-to-face with an aggressive-looking woman, with nearly as many freckles as Marco, but with distinctively harsher features and a scowl that somehow managed to look even more discontent than Annie's. She also wore… a butler's suit?

"What d'ya want? Here on business or just come to pester the Smiths? If that's so, I promise that you'll regret it, ya height don't scare me none," she smirked, cracking her knuckles in a threatening manner as she did so. Bertholdt, obviously, felt his flight reflexes kicking in, but half closing his eyes (not completely, he wasn't going to take them off her), he breathed in deeply and handed her the letter.

She looked at it with a scowl that only deepened as she held the piece of paper, not unfolding it to get to the information inside as he would have thought that she would have done. Finally, she handed it back to him with a "Nah, give this to the important folks, they'll know what to do with it. Just tell me why ya here and all, that'll do."

He wasn't escaping it anymore, he was going to have to speak to her. Sweat pouring down his back in its usual manner when stressed , he fumbled awkwardly with the crinkly paper of the bag, while the woman's temper gradually shortened.

He expected screaming. Maybe being bodily thrown from the domain. But there was none of that.

The slap was so unexpected that he broke instantly and babbled in a strongly accented mix of German and English all the information that she needed, and probably more, as the smarting pain receded slowly back where it came from. She smiled, content.

"There ya go! Ya see ya can do it when you wanna! Master Smith's room's the third on the left on the first floor."

She then bowed him in, in a show of deference that was an incredible contrast with the treatment he had just been given. However, he didn't have much time to reflect on the weirdness of the housekeeper, gasping at the sheer immensity of the place. It was a classic layout for an old English manor, a double staircase arcing easily towards a shallow first floor, with large tapestries on the floor and walls and a very colourful Venetian glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was surprisingly warm, something that wouldn't under other circumstances be expected of a room that wasn't lived in much, and due to the limitations that the government imposed upon gas and other scarce resources. In other words, these people were very, very wealthy.

Taking his time so as to take in the view of the sumptuous place while he still could, he made his way up the staircase slowly, fingertips barely grazing the polished wood of the bannister. After a while, he remembered his purpose in this place, and drifted towards the room that the housekeeper had directed him to. The last thing he wanted was to get caught doing something he shouldn't, despite his curiosity.

Women in this town are scary, he thought idly, knocking on the door of which he admired the floral carvings. Or at least impressive, he added, when a grunted reply answered him through the wood.

The man he found in the pure white bedroom was standing with his back turned to him, in a manner that breathed authority and forced respect. His blond hair and stature were very close to Reiner's, although three major differences could be spotted that meant that Bertholdt would have been able to tell them apart even in a crowd.

Firstly, his aura was different. As he had felt as soon as he had stepped into the room, this man was someone who had commanded and would be obeyed, unlike his friend, who was by far more mellow and friendly.

Secondly, when he turned to face him, he could see just by his face how old he was. Not physically, of course, but on the inside, all the scars that life had left on him, all the pain he had been through. And that he was still going through, probably.

Finally, and probably the most blatant of all these characteristics, was the fact that one of the arms of his long-sleeved shirt was filled with a healthy limb, while the other fell limply by his side.

Bertholdt was by no means shocked by this. He had seen a lot of similar things in his childhood, and many that were much, much worse on his travels. It did ignite a flame of insecurity in him though, because Hange had not had the time to tell him, and maybe the housekeeper wanted him to fall in this readily-made trap, but the only way a person of his age could have obtained such an injury was during…

"…the Great War, before you ask."

His voice was deep and disturbingly familiar, but he couldn't let himself be troubled by it. He had a mission to accomplish. He walked up to the shorter man and roughly shoved the letter in his waiting hand, having unfolded it first. Unperturbed by his slightly impolite action, his eyes scanned over the illegible scrawl left by the doctor, humming in approval from time to time, before setting it aside onto a nearby chest of drawers.

"All right, Bertholdt it is then. I'll accept a change from that maniac anyday, even though it says here that you're timid. I hope to be able to get some conversation out of you one day though, lad. It gets pretty boring up here with only Ymir and the family fussing about. I'll have my pills, now."

The tall boy handed them over. The man peeked into the bag, going through what he had been given, making sure that nothing was missing. Bertholdt, meanwhile, was dreading the minute he'll have to ask him about his dosage. This man had fought in the Great War, against his nation, and despite the fact that he had seemed pretty calm until then, he knew from experience that the moment he would open his mouth, he would either be greeted with indifference or hatred. He went through his options, sweating excessively, as usual, and decided on going back to his old habit of disguising his accent.

"Doctor asks… if enough?"

There, he could not escape being seen as a foreigner, but he could at least make himself otherwise unidentifiable. He was quite proud of his phrasing, if he was to tell the truth, he thought that maybe his sentence made sense, and he wouldn't have to go through the painstaking task of having to repeat it again.

The only answer he got to the question was a distracted nod. The blond man turned back to his previous position, facing the window again. "You're dismissed," he said in an equally distracted tone, still concentrated on the contents of the bag. He had nearly reached the door, happy that his trip had been so successful, when a sharp "Wait" hit his ears and he turned on his heels, immediately snapping to attention.

"Please remember to tell your bastard of a father and brothers that they'll pay for the damage their country has done to mine. You may go, now."

It was as he stumbled past the housekeeper's amused gaze and the open front door, his heart hammering away in his chest, that he thought that maybe this first meeting could have gone better, after all.

000

All through the afternoon, Reiner tripped and trod on people's toes, too lost in the morose thoughts that were going through his head. If it wasn't for the fact that all the evidence pointed towards it being true, he would have shrugged John's words off and assumed that they were simply lies designed to stress him. But after having asked a random person walking the streets and being told that the information was indeed accurate, he lapsed into the thoughtful and very worried state he was in now.

On top of all that, he had started thinking of the well-being of his mother as well. Not having seen her in an amount of time that was longer than he usually allowed himself to be away from her, he started comforting the idea of going home early to join her. They never spoke, really, but he might be able to help her with the sewing, maybe cook something nice that they would have together tonight… maybe even warm her up to the idea of Bertholdt staying over. That was one thing he had not thought about.

As he pored over the multiple excuses that would maybe sway her, he felt someone unexpectedly grasp his upper arm. Before he knew what was happening, he was pulled over away from his designated work routine by the incredible strength this person possessed, and only when they were out of sight of the other people in the street did he recognised the hooded figure before him.

"Annie? What are you doing out here?"

"Shut up," she hissed, looking up into his eyes with a frosty stare. "I need to know what happened this morning. You flew out without your hat and looked out of it."

"Er… and you're skipping work to come and check on me?" he asked, surprised. This was really unlike her.

"You stupid mule. No, I need to go deal with the farmers again, they've decided they want more for less, and I can't let that pass."

She cracked her knuckles, and he swallowed thickly. He didn't doubt that she'll be getting what she had come for.

She returned her gaze to him, looking at him sideways and with a raised eyebrow underneath her hood. "By the way, there's something you're not telling me. Several things, actually, since you looked panicked when I said that," she smirked.

Again, he wasn't sure what she was actually referring to, so decided on the easier choice. "I'll be out of work soon. There's a new bus of refugees coming over, and I doubt that I'll ever be able to compete with them, work-wise, that is."

Annie hummed a little, thinking. "They'll be untrained and useless in the beginning, but that will be remedied quickly. The only thing that I can assure you is that I'll let you keep your job at my place, even if it were my father coming back on that carriage. And really, Reiner, I would have thought that you were more foresighted than that."

He looked at his feet and shuffled around a bit, in a way that wouldn't be unlike Bertholdt's.

"It's not that I wasn't foresighted…"

"THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING, THEN?"

He hadn't been expecting an angry outburst from her, and he shushed her quickly, trying to get her to calm down.

"Annie, I'll lose my job if you attract attention to me. Please, we can talk about this later…"

Her small hand fisted the fabric of his shirt as his neck, and wrenched him down to her level.

"Oh no you won't," she hissed into his ear. "You do this all the time. Procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate. Always tomorrow, never today. Tell you what, buddy, I'm not going to let you do that. You're going to tell me _exactly_ why you're hoarding coupons and coal and money. DON'T look at me like that, I've been to your place, it's packed with the stuff. Have _you_ got a mental disorder as well? Or are you planning to bribe your way out of this place, return to your home country, maybe?.."

Her grip was really starting to hurt him now, and he needed to get to his inhalator.

"A-Annie… can't breathe…"

She let go instantly, but still pinned him under her cool gaze as he scrabbled through his pockets and found relief in the small, life-saving device. Once he felt that he'll be all right again, he looked at her, and told her the truth.

"You're right, I am paying for right of passage, but… it's not the way you think. Whatever happens, I'm staying here. No, mother's been getting worse. She's old for a mother, and after my brother turned out stillborn, she hasn't been very well. She can't walk well, and that' nothing to do with the fact that she doesn't leave the room, it's her nerves taking a toll on her… Hange told me that she should retire somewhere warmer, less humid, but it's difficult. We're at war. The best place would be the south, France or Spain, if possible. If she manages to pass as a German housewife who wants to go and cure her aches in thermal water, it should work."

Annie was stunned. This was not at all what she was expecting, and she babbled a little bit, trying to find her words.

"Wh-who knows about this? Father White? Hange? Wait, does your _mother_ know what you're planning?"

He sighed, but continued anyway. She only realised how fully he trusted her when he explained himself, and it's true that, if it were anyone else, she wouldn't have believed him one bit and suspected them of treason.

"Mother knows, and is willing to continue on with the charade, but no one else does, apart from you and me. Look, I'm trying to smuggle someone into enemy territory, and not be suspected of spying. Do you know how difficult that is? That's another reason why I want to get closer to Bertholdt. Not only do I admire him and he saved my life, but also because he probably knows of a person who would offer passage to the mainland. After that, mother would be able to play along just fine; she's got all her documentation from when she was still living in Germany, so as long as she has money, she will be able to get from one place to another without any problem. But everything before that is going to be difficult. That's why I've got the coal, so as not to raise suspicion if I left too much money lying around; it's an easily sellable resource."

The small blonde had recovered from her initial shock and had regained her steel-strong expression. This didn't bother her as much as it had at first. In fact, she well expected her employee to come up with such a hair-brained scheme. But she also knew that he would, without any doubt, succeed.

"Right, good. Get back to work now before you get into trouble. I'll have something more to say about the subject, but later on, in a place where we can't be overheard so easily. I might be able to offer some help."

He gaped at her, not believing his ears.

"What is the fish-face for? I'm not a cold-hearted bitch, you know," she said, and as she walked away from the scene, she allowed herself a very rare, very small, genuine smile

000

He had returned to an empty house, the lack of distinctive green cape on the coat-hook a clear indicator of the lack of doctor as well. This wasn't what Bertholdt was expecting: with how the doctor had described their situation, he had thought that he would have been buried under errands from the moment he accepted their proposition, but this was obviously not to be the case. Drifting into the one room he had been introduced to earlier on, he looked around for a note, a package, or anything else that could have been left in evidence and addressed to him, giving him a new task to complete.

After a while, he spotted a piece of paper sitting on the consultation bed, on top of a pile of blankets, ceramic hot water bottles, and other such equipment.

 _Out on emergency, will B back late.  
Make urself at home, food in cupboards.  
Z. Hange_

It took him a few seconds to decipher their ugly scrawl and strange wording, and was met with mixed feelings as to the meaning of the message. When they said "Food in cupboard", did they expect him to cook a meal? And "make yourself at home" sounded a lot like an invitation to clean up the place. On the other hand, it meant that he had full rights to explore to his nosy heart's content. With a mental shrug, he pocketed the note and started poking around.

The consultation room, apart from being messy, didn't look like it was used often. Hange probably preferred house visits, he reflected, as he swiped a finger across the large desktop, which came back covered in grime. There was still some places that looked used, such as the far end of the desk, where quite a few papers were pilled (he didn't look through those, he had been taught the hard way that reading other's medical records was a huge offense), and the path leading to a mysterious door, which had an obviously well-worn brass handle glinting through the half-dark in the windowless room. He walked over to it, took the smooth metal in his palm, and tried turning it.

It was locked.

In his childhood, he had known an old man who had often told tales from an old story book, both in French and in German, and thus taught the proper use of both languages to all the kids in the village. Not a single child in the place could claim to not be able to speak at least a few words of French, thanks to old Valjean's tales, even the most illiterate ones. The man was known for his flamboyant style, and all were captivated by his speech when he started on yet another of Perrault's or Andersen's stories, as they came to life in the wide-mouthed children's and sterner adult's mind's eye.

One of those tales came back full-force to Bertholdt in that instant, the similarities between his own, very real situation, and the fictional one he had been told as a child hitting him like a charging bull. The locked door. The invitation to go anywhere, but the very obvious sign that this one room was _not_ one for him to see the contents of…

Blue-Beard.

That one tale had been obsessively haunting him for months now. When he saw his father's grave face when reading the newspaper, he had imagined the politicians he so feared with hulking forms and dark grey beards, looking blue under the moon's rays, just like old Valjean had described the ogre that terrified him as a kid. In time, he had reconsidered the imagery, the monsters actually having light, neatly slicked back hair and not a shadow of a beard on their clean-shaven cheeks. Even though he knew that it was unreasonable, it had left a strong impression on him nonetheless, and he couldn't quell the urge to run away as quickly as possible that was inflating in his chest, making his breathing heavy and strained.

He closed his eyes. He needed to snap out of this state. Slowly, he concentrated on his breathing, holding every lungful of air in for a few seconds each time, taking all the calming properties of the vital gas in.

He decided to turn around, and to not set foot into the room until he was invited to. If he was indeed in a fairy tale, he would be the one wife that was not killed. The one who never existed in the books. The one who left her curiosity to one side and never, ever dared go into the forbidden room.

He limited himself to the first floor out of the three or four floors that the house had. The main door opened into a hallway which he had already walked several times, and that supposedly served as a waiting room. Chairs and several dusty government-issue posters lined the place, not brightening the place up much, but still a distraction to a weary set of eyes. A little further down the hall, a door lead into a bathroom. The place was clearly indicated, probably for the patients that used to make their own way to the house rather than be attended to in their homes. Bertholdt poked his head in the place, and seeing that the coast was clear, pushed the door a little further open.

It could have been cleaner, was the only thing his perplexed mind could churn out when confronted by various jars of off-colour liquid, some with _bits_ floating around in them. They crowded what could have been a perfectly good bathroom otherwise, with a porcelain loo behind an eastern-style partition, a large sink and cabinets lining the walls, as well as a strangely designed bathtub, which turned out to be granite when he ran his finger over its dark surface, sunken into the floor and lined, as well as the rest of the room, with jars of liquid.

He opened a few cupboards and peered into them, only to find more off-putting decoctions lining the shelves. That was when he decided that this room was probably didn't have anything else to show that he wanted to see, and exited back into the hall.

There was only one door left to go through on the side of the narrow room, one that he hoped was the kitchen. He didn't want to have to go up the staircase, and have to succumb to the temptation and explore that floor as well. He was already terrified enough as it was from his little panic attack earlier on.

The hinges creaked as he pushed the door open, definitely in need of being oiled. Not much could be seen of the room beyond, apart from the fact that it was rather large, and the small cluster of glowing coals shining through some kind of stove on the opposite side of the room. There were also a few rays of natural light streaming in from a curtained window, which he walked up to (slamming his thigh painfully against a wayward piece of furniture in a process). He pulled the curtains apart, and was greeted with, big surprise, a very messy kitchen.

This was fortunately a more "normal" mess. Pots and pans sporting a thick layer of grease were piled in both sinks; dirty plates and mugs took up the counters and plate-racks. Strangely enough, there wasn't much cutlery hanging around, but when he opened a drawer, he found the silvers easily enough, seemingly untouched and glinting under a thin layer of dust. Shaking his head and putting the thought aside, he turned to the work he had laid out in front of him, and sighed. Not only for Hange, but also for himself, he wanted to make this place nicer, easier to live in, take away the pigsty aspect and turn it into a real home. His eyes landed on the enormous fireplace that took up nearly the whole length of the room, probably large enough to roast a whole pig, and walked over to it to tend to it and add some wood to the dying coals.

Yes, from here onwards, he will reconstruct his life, take this fresh start as an opportunity to get himself back together, and try and put his past behind him. He gulped down a lump in his throat that threatened to swell and spill over through his tear ducts, watching the slumbering fire turn into a roaring monster, the flames of which heated him up instantly.

He spent the rest of the day cleaning the room, which turned out to be much bigger than expected underneath all the clutter and grime. A few hours in, he started worrying about the dying fire and lack of wood to put on it, so he decided to go through the back door into the garden beyond in search of some. Fortunately, he found a large pile underneath the partial shelter that offered the overhang of the roof, and lugged some back to the kitchen. He managed to get the place looking decent by the time the sun set, by which time he decided it would be a good idea to start cooking.

He wasn't that good at it, he had to admit, but he wanted to do something for Hange, let them get back, for once, to a warm house and a nice dinner. And it wasn't as if he had any excuse not to do so anyway, with the afternoon off he had been given.

Knowing what the cupboards contained from the searching he had done earlier on, he opened them assuredly, now certain of what he was going to make.

And it would certainly _not_ contain potatoes, thank you very much.


End file.
